


Behind Vacant Eyes

by rebelliousangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crime, Destiel - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Multi, Psychopath, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousangel/pseuds/rebelliousangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkness of night can shield the human eye from the many horrors that lurk within the shadows. Castiel's life changes forever one night when he wakes up to find his wife murdered. He seeks comfort from the wrong people and unknowingly drives himself down a dangerous road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're All a Little Insane

**Author's Note:**

> VISUALS  
> Castiel Novak: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8c/fc/0b/8cfc0b8298652f9355a5d7af5011c27c.jpg  
> Dean Winchester: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/fa/ec/b0/faecb04b8b7d59097a05ee7080595e94.jpg  
> Meg Novak: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcriwftUOB1r3hucgo1_1280.jpg  
> Anna Milton: https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR481_0zV8bwCdi2aug7Z6wbevn7WXqCZ2fK2HBeTjKeQmUtHRn  
> Balthazar (French officer): **will not allow me to post a link but it's Sebastian Rochè**  
> The Novak House: http://syrchinese.com/Images/IMG_2952.jpg  
> Meg's Nightgown: https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQZvsTDlcDizGbhK3UZHIo_UrkyR4iujVgQFpxjU18PE63aywOn

Darkness crept over the quaint little house in the middle of the busy neighbourhood. For once, as everyone lay asleep in their beds, there is not a sound to be heard for miles. The silence is almost soothing, a break from the constant chatting and traffic and children playing-quite obnoxiously-on the streets. The moon is nowhere in sight tonight, leaving the night sky only slightly illuminated by millions of stars.Only the blackness remains, covering the town like a sound proof blanket, shielding promiscuous acts from the naked eye, and most of all, blinding the sight of every resident.   
  
The blissful serenity of the neighbourhood is interrupted by the steady _click-clacking_ of heels against the pavement. The silhouette of a woman traipses steadily up the driveway, practically tip toeing up the steps leading to the veranda. When she reaches the front door, she digs through her purse, pulling out a set of keys a few seconds later. With a painful  _squeak_ she pushes the door open, wincing slightly at the noise. She steps across the threshold, shutting the door behind herself. Paranoid, she holds her breath, thinking she heard a noise. She listens with great intent, controlling her breathing before she decides the coast is clear. Then she gently kicks off her six inch heels and shrugs off her leather jacket. Her mind is running miles inside of her, recalling a few drinks with a friendly stranger and all of the indiscretions that followed afterwards in the back alleyway. Running a trembling hand through her long brown locks she lets out a breath. The last thing she wants is her husband to wake up and find her like this. Lucky for her, he's quite the heavy sleeper. Nonetheless, she is extremely cautionate as she tip toes through the kitchen and down the hallway, where a hidden supply of makeup remover and fresh pajamas await her.   
  
A tall shadow of a man lurks a short distance away, examining her thoroughly through an open window, concealed by the total darkness the night has to offer. His lips curve upward into a menacing smile, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at his next victim. She was petite and physically healthy, with long brown hair that she had curled for the night. He distinctly remembers watching her grind on a complete stranger only a half hour ago. She was the perfect target, and with no direct connection, this should be a piece of cake. His hands twitch at his sides as the woman slides the dress off of her shoulders. The faint, grim smirk quickly disappears from his face when he hears the steady flow of water running. He steps up onto the veranda, still remaining in plain sight for anyone inhabiting the area to see. As he reaches the front door, he swiftly tugs it open. It's unlocked, just as he had suspected. The woman washing her sins away was too preoccupied with ensuring she wouldn't get caught for sneaking in so late that she forgot to lock the front door.   
  
The man creeps inside the quiet little house, shutting the door closed behind him. The steady hum of the running water continues to camouflage his footsteps as he walks over to a small corner to the side of the hall, his breath never faltering as he does so. He studies his surroundings, taking careful note of the location of the land-line. The man waits in patience, like a predator stalking its prey, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting.   
  
Minutes later, the door swings open, revealing the petite brunette, now wearing a satin white nightgown. His jaw tightens as he catches sight of her. The woman who had been a she-devil at the bar only a few minutes ago, was now wearing an outfit of innocence, purity. He recalls her actions over the last few weeks for the millionth time, staring blankly in disbelief at the degraded excuse for a woman. She takes a few more steps towards the kitchen, remembering the purse she had left discarded on the floor. The man steps behind her carefully, studying the steady bounce of her hair. He takes a strand in his fingers as he mimics her footsteps. Finally, he grabs her from behind, one of his large hands, covered by the protection of a black glove, latches firmly onto her mouth, which is still stained with red lipstick.  
  
The woman's eyes widen in fright and she opens her mouth to let out a scream, but only a dull, muffled sound escapes. Expertly, he pushes her against the wall, one of his hands now pressed around her throat, applying the smallest amount of pressure. The dull dim illuminating the room from the nearby window finally reveals the intruder's face. The woman's wide light brown eyes meet his and she attempts to cry out. His eyes drift down her chest, stopping at the ribbon tied securely to hold the shawl on top of the nightgown in place. It covers her chest perfectly, tastefully displaying her dignified collarbones. Loosening his grip, he brings one hand down, fingering the ribbon carefully, twirling it in his fingers.   
  
"You didn't seem to mind being the center of attention back at the bar when you were screwing that stranger in the alleyway" he growls, a deep animalistic voice. "Not when his hands were down your pants, not when he pushed you against the wall and took you like a dirty little slut..." His finger hooks itself in the ribbon and pulls viciously, the shawl falling gracefully at her sides, revealing the low v-cut of the nightgown and her breasts. A silent tear rolls down the brunette's cheek and the attacker smirks, bringing his other hand back up to her neck, paying careful attention to the silver cross pendant that now hangs loosely around it. He releases his hand from her mouth, joining the other one around her neck.   
  
"He...Help...Help Me..Hel-" she cries out, her voice barely audible by the lack of oxygen entering her body. She brings her arms up, prying desperately at the hands attacking her throat. The man smirks, digging his thumbs deep into the skin in the middle of her throat. A familiar feeling from deep inside of him twists and turns in anticipation, urging him on. He imagines for a moment how easy it would be to reach into his pocket and pull out the pair of scissors that he had been saving for later that same evening, stabbing the woman deep in the jugular, killing her quick and watching her helplessly bleed out. But he has been at this a long time, he has learned from his foolish mistakes. Using bare hands was his first, an easy fix. The black gloves he now wears are perfect to mask any prints and still be used as a weapon. As he has learned long ago, leaving a mess would only leave him on the run or behind bars. _The moment you lose yourself is the moment you get caught._   He reminds himself, pressing his fingers harder and harder into the brunette's throat. Besides, this way is far more rewarding.  
  
As her heartbeat dulls in her chest, slowly fading away, her lips part, and one last look of desperation washes over her face. Her arms fall limp at her sides, the lack of oxygen entering her body is beginning to take its toll on her control. He recognizes the signs all too well and begins squeezing even harder. One last look of terror invades her eyes as she stares back at his. A flicker of lust dances over his once vacant eyes, a look so primal it's inhuman. The woman lets one last croak escape her lips before the darkness washes over her entire body, falling limp against his hands.The man keeps a tight grip on her throat for a few more seconds, he refuses to have a repeat of what happened in Texas. Finally, he lays her body on the kitchen floor, crouching down beside her face and bringing a tender hand to her cheek. The side of his finger gently caresses the side of her face before he reaches over, gripping the miniature silver pendant with his fingers and tearing it from her neck. He takes a moment to admire his handiwork, the deep red finger shaped bruises that cover her neck causes him to smile. Standing up onto his feet, he shoves the small cross into his front pocket and makes his way over to the kitchen cabinet.

He pulls a glass form the cabinet and begins pouring himself a glass of red wine. He leans against the wall, sipping the wine slowly, his eyes never once leaving his latest victim. When he is finished, he produces a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiping down the rim of the glass, eliminating any evidence that he possibly can. Then he walks over to the sink, quietly rinsing out the glass. Once he is finished, he pours more wine into it, leaving the wine glass only half full this time. He places it on the kitchen table, perfectly linear and visible to the opposite hallway.   
  
As he grips the pair of scissors he has hidden away in his jacket pocket, a sudden noise coming from upstairs startles him. The intruder glances around calmly, ensuring that there is no evidence of his visit, before dashing towards the front door and locking it on his way out, disappearing into the dark abyss of the night.   
  
Castiel Novak emerges from his room, drowsily calling for his wife. When the house remains silent, he calls louder, "Meg? Meg are you home?" He sighs as he walks down the long corridor that leads to the kitchen, clumsily stubbing his toe on the wall in the process. "Meg?" he repeats for a third time, his voice echoing throughout the halls of his household. His hands search the wall for a light switch, flicking it on and nearly blinding himself. He squints his bright blue eyes, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights that now illuminate the room. The glass of wine is the first thing that comes into his perspective. He sighs, walking towards the glass. He curses as his foot gets caught on something. Glancing down, he meets his wife's pale, lifeless face. Screaming out in horror, Castiel takes a step back, gripping onto the wall for support. Taking a deep breath, he kneels down on the floor beside her, bringing an ear down to her chest, searching for any sign of life. When none is found, he moves up to her mouth. Again, no air escapes from between her lips. He pulls away, his eyes widening in horror as he eyes the deep red marks on her neck. Castiel jumps up, sprinting across the room to the land-line. Without hesitation, he dials 9-1-1.  
  
The ambulance arrives only minutes later and a mirage of authority figures pile into his house, all circulated tightly around the brunette. Castiel waits impatiently, carefully observing the abundance of commotion surrounding him.    
  
"He's taunting us" one of them, an older looking man says, "This is just like Texas only, this guy has smartened up!"   
  
"There's another wine glass on the table, should I send it to the lab for examination?" a petite redhead asks.   
  
"He probably wiped it clean. We should get Forensics in here to-" the man with a heavy French accent begins, only to be cut off by Castiel.   
  
"What the hell is going on here?" he demands, feeling completely lost and useless in spite of all things.  
  
"Mr..." the man trails off.   
  
"Novak." Castiel informs, "Castiel Novak."   
  
"Right." he nods, "Mr. Novak, we believe your wife was strangled."   
  
"No shit!" the young man scoffs, "Why the hell do you-"   
  
"Do you want to help us?" the officer cuts him off, raising an eyebrow at him.   
  
"Yes." Castiel sighs, frustrated with the way he is being treated.   
  
"I am sorry to inform you that she was stalked weeks, maybe even months prior to tonight. Your wife wasn't chosen at random, this has all been planned. You can help us by telling us where she was tonight and-"   
  
"Sir!" the redhead calls over, "Sir, you should have a look at this!"   
  
"One moment please." he holds a finger up in Castiel's direction before walking back towards the redhead. Ignoring the officer completely, Castiel follows close behind him.   
  
"Look, just below the bruises on her neck." she explains, pointing two of her glove covered fingers at a faint cross engraved into her skin.   
  
"Her necklace." Castiel whispers, "He took her necklace."    
   
"Well, that certainly makes things interesting, now doesn't it." the French man ponders, "Milton, call in a Forensics team right away. I want this place searched with a fine tooth comb."   
  
"Yes sir." the redhead obliges. Castiel watches her as she dials a phone number, slightly pacing the room and adjusting her glasses as she speaks to someone on the other line.  
  
"You need to tell me everything you saw and everything you heard. You need to tell me precisely when your wife left and if there have been any troubles in your marriage. No stone will be left unturned during this investigation, not on my watch, not when we have a full fledged serial killer on the loose."   
  
Castiel can feel the blood draining from his face at the words. He opens his mouth to speak, widening his eyes in shock.   
  
"A.. _what_..?" he finally manages to get out.   
  
Chaos floods the streets of the once tranquil neighbourhood. Police lights, head lights and lights of many kinds all illuminate the night sky. The steady pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the house is giving Castiel a migraine. Down in the vast sea of curious neighbours and news reporters, there is a man. He is strikingly handsome, well-dressed in a suit of sorts with his hair carefully slicked back. A small smirk creeps up on his face, lingering for the slightest moment before he disappears into the rest of the crowd, his empty eyes reflecting the anarchy around him and his hands planted firmly in his pockets, gripped firmly onto the silver pendant. 


	2. Blinding Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VISUAL:  
> Streets of Boston: http://www.pchagnon.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/night_Acorn-Street_IMGP0193.jpg

The night Meg was murdered had turned out to be the longest night of Castiel's life. For hours on end, Castiel spoke with the detective, a French man named Balthazar, about his wife. Upon discussing his marriage, he manages to uncover that his wife has infact been cheating on him. Night after night, Meg would leave the house with no explanation, always returning home in the dead of night, assuming that Castiel is fast asleep. He recalls how she would act the mornings following her mysterious outings-disattached, secluded. The petite redhead-who calls herself Anna-had been at his house all night, going over every last detail of the crime with the forensics team. Needless to say, whatever they were doing was clearly classified and he was clearly not welcome, so they told him to get some rest and prepared to be further questioned in the morning. Even if he could sleep, he cannot even fathom to imagine the horrors that would haunt him within his dreams. 

Today, Castiel wants nothing more than to go have a few drinks at a local bar. He doesn't consider himself to be an alcoholic by any means, but his wife was murdered less than twenty four hours ago and he wants something to take the edge off of things.

Upon entering the bar, he peers around at his surroundings. Considering the time, the lack of company doesn't surprise him. A classic rock song is playing softly in the background as he takes a seat at the bar, ordering a shot of whiskey. He holds his head in his hands, being unable to escape the migraine still dawning on him from last night. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back and presses the shot glass to his lips, downing the whiskey in one swig. 

"Rough night?" a rough voice chuckles from behind him, laced with a thick southern drawl. Without bothering to turn around , Castiel nods.   
  
"Oh you have no idea.." he trails off with a long exaggerated sigh. The mysterious stranger takes a seat on the bar stool night to him, signaling for the bartender to bring him a beer.  
  
"Well, you don't see many people drinking whiskey at nine in the morning, especially guys like you." he offers. Castiel turns his head, finally getting a glimpse at the stranger. He is well dressed in a suit and tie, with bright green eyes and a smoldering smile. His hair is well parted and slicked back like a gentlemen's would be. He is strikingly handsome, with a face that you can never forget no matter how hard you tried, and by far the most attractive man that Castiel has ever lied his eyes on. Snapping out of his daze, his eyebrows furrow together in confusement.   
  
"Guys like me?" he questions.   
  
"Yeah, you know, married types with a healthy relationship with their wife." the man smiles, frowning when Castiel averts his eyes, calling the bartender over for another shot.   
  
"My wife uh..." he pauses, not wanting to be one of those guys who spills their entire tragic life story to a shady stranger they have just met, "My wife passed away...last night."  
  
"Oh...that's awful.." the stranger trails off, afraid that he has offended him, "I'm sorry for your loss."   
  
"Thanks.." Cas mutters.   
  
A long moment of silence passes between the pair as Castiel casually downs another shot and the stranger sips quietly at his beer.   
  
"I'm Dean, by the way." the stranger finally identifies himself, stretching a hand out towards Castiel.   
  
"Castiel." he nods back, "Cas for short."   
  
"Cas huh?" Dean smiles, "That's different. I like it." Castiel smiles, his blue eyes glimmering under the bar lights.   
  
"So what brings you here, Dean?"   
  
"Honestly? Trouble with my younger brother." Dean sighs, taking another swig of his beer, "He thinks I should really consider settling down with some girl and starting a family."   
  
"You don't want that?" Castiel asks before he has time to fully understand what he is saying, "Oh God I'm sorry, it's none of my business and-"   
  
"Calm down." Dean chuckles, "It's fine." he takes a breath so long that Castiel begins to wonder whether he crosses the line with that last question, "It's not that I don't want that..It's just...I don't swing for that team..if you get what I'm saying."  
  
"Oh." Castiel replies simply.   
  
"Wow, what a way to kill a conversation."   
  
"No, it's not that." Castiel reassures him, "I just....I have a lot on my mind right now and.."  
  
"Right, your wife." Dean remembers, "Man, I can't even imagine what you must be going through right now."   
  
As a familiar Journey song sounds through the room, Dean begins to lowly sing along, earning a smile from the younger of the pair. Now Castiel is lip syncing along, unable to contain the wide smile that is plastered across his face. Dean's eyes are closed as he dramatically sings along to the chorus,"Don't stop believin'. Hold onto that feeellingg." Castiel pauses, admiring the man, placing a hand on his face and leaning his elbow on the bar. As the second verse begins, Dean opens his eyes once again. Castiel's hand quickly slips away from his face, averting his gaze from the older of the two. Dean smiles, licking his lips and softly chuckling. The playful grin remains on his face as Castiel's eyes meet his once again. "You have a nice smile." he starts, "Has anyone ever told you that before?"  
  
"No, actually.." Cas trails off, "To be honest with you, the relationship that I had with my wife was...disappointing in a way.."   
  
"How so?" Dean asks, tilting his head to the side.   
  
"I think she was cheating on me."   
  
Dean widens his eyes, letting out a long exaggerated huff. Castiel even laughs at his reaction. Perhaps the whiskey has gone to his head and he has no control of his actions anymore.   
  
"Who in their right mind would cheat on you?" Dean asks, completely serious.   
  
Without thinking, Castiel leans in closer to Dean, smashing their lips together. He pulls away, breathing hard, as soon as he is aware of his actions.   
  
"Shit." he breathes out with wide eyes,"I-I shouldn't have done that. It was impulsive and stupid and-"   
  
Dean's expression turns blank as he grabs the younger man's face, kissing him hard and passionate on the lips. Castiel kisses him back fiercely, loving how his own lips feel against the mysterious stranger's.   
  
"Gentlemen!" a voice interrupts them, "If you haven't noticed, this is a public establishment-meaning that I would prefer not having to watch the two of you have sex in front of me!" The bartender glares at them.   
  
Cas rolls his eyes, tossing a few dollar bills on the table before walking out of the bar. Dean follows close behind him, jogging ahead to block his path.   
  
"What's wrong?" Dean asks.   
  
"My wife was murdered last night, and here I am making out with you, a complete stranger.."  
  
"Murdered?" Dean questions, furrowing his eyebrows together in false confusion. Suddenly voices are swimming through his head.  _Kill him._ They whisper in low sinister voices. _Kill him._ His fingers twitch at his sides, recalling watching the petite brunette woman's life drain from her eyes, smiling as she took her final agonizing breath, crushing her windpipe with his bare hands-  
  
"Crap." Castiel curses, "I wasn't really supposed to tell anyone about that.."   
  
"Who killed her?" he asks stupidly. Castiel rolls his eyes in disbelief, clearly frustrated with the lack of progress being made to identify his wife's killer.   
  
"I don't know." he sighs, "The police are idiots. You'd think they would be a hell of a lot better at what they do, especially since this isn't his first kill!" pausing for a minute, he realizes that he has revealed far too much, "Fuck. I uh..I should get back."   
  
"Are you saying that there's a serial killer running around the streets of Boston?"  
  
"I'm sorry..I really should go home." he dances around the question.  
  
"Wait." Dean insists, grabbing Castiel's arm, "Can I call you sometime?"   
  
"I don't know if that would be best.."  
  
"Aw c'mon." Dean smiles, "Can I at least give you my number and you can choose whether to call or not?" Castiel ponders on this for a moment, weighing in his options. He comes to the conclusion that accepting Dean's number will do no harm, and so he nods, handing the eldest his cell phone. Cas watches intently as Dean inputs the 10 digits before handing him back his phone.   
  
"See ya 'round, stranger." Dean winks at him, turning on his heel to walk down the opposite street.  
  
***

Castiel arrives home to find his house taped off from the general public. Slightly annoyed, he walks up to one of the many officers on duty.   
  
"Excuse me" he says in a gravelly voice, "Would I be able to get into my own house?"   
  
The officer raises an eyebrow at himself, clearly being able to smell the alcohol on the young man's breath. At first he ignores him, paying no attention to Castiel rambling on and on about how he will not be restricted from his own damn house. When the officer becomes noticeably agitated, he turns towards the half-drunken man, asking him to leave the crime scene before he has to personally escort him away himself. Castiel, who is about a second away from giving the officer a piece of his mind, closes his mouth quickly as he spots a familiar French detective exiting his house.   
  
"Detective!" Castiel calls out, disregarding the officer who warns him a second time, "Detective Balthazar!"   
  
The tall blonde man instantly recognizes the voice and walks over towards Castiel. He waves the officer off, lifting the yellow tape and allowing the younger man to pass through.   
  
"I'm glad you're here, we foun-is that alcohol I smell?"   
  
"My wife was murdered last night by an alleged serial killer, so yes I thought hell, why not have a few drinks. I'm sorry officer, is that a crime?" Castiel challenges, the alcohol undoubtedly beginning to get to his head.

The pair opens the door and Castiel is met with the inescapable chaos for a second time that day. He peers around, examining the newly decorated area. Multitudes of people, all dressed in impressive uniforms marked 'CSI' or 'FORENSICS' or 'BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT' are scattered amongst the room, each performing a specific task. A few of them are snapping photos of his furniture, others chat furiously with each other, scribbling down notes as they do so. The atmosphere appears completely unrecognizable as sunlight shines brightly through the windows. illuminating the room and enabling every detail to be seen.  
  
"Mr. Novak, when is the last time that you and your wife engaged in sexual intercourse?" the older man asks, snapping Castiel from his daze.  
  
"Not for awhile now.." he replies.   
  
"Not last night?"  
  
"No." Castiel pauses, "Why do you ask?"   
  
"Because the Medical Examiner found fresh semen in your wife. We have sent it to the lab to be analyzed."   
  
Castiel stills for a moment, realizing that his suspicions regarding his wife had been correct all along-or that he is wrongly accusing his wife of being sexually involved with another man when she was raped.  
  
"Go drink some water, I'll need you sober before I show you anything." he commands, leaving Castiel alone once again.  
  
He grumbles, stalking into the kitchen and snatching a clean glass from the cupboard. With a long sigh, he turns on the tap, filling the glass halfway before tipping it to his lips and downing the contents. Practically slamming the cup on the counter, he takes a few steps back into the front room, his head pounding with every movement.

'Feeling better?" the detective asks, meeting his intense stare.  
  
"What did you find?" he asks, ignoring the question completely.   
  
"Dead flowers." he states bluntly, the blank look on his face irritating Castiel immensely. He bites his lip before his mouth morphs into a mocking smile, bitterly chuckling at the two simple words. Suddenly he pauses, making direct eye contact with the detective.   
  
"Dead flo-this has got to be a joke, right? You found dead flowers?" the younger man bellows, squinting his eyes in a mixture of confusion and rage, "Well then, congratu-fucking-lations to you! Case closed! You can just pack up your shit and leave!"   
  
"Mr. Novak." the French man warns, "I don't know what has gotten into you this morning and frankly, I don't bloody care! But if you don't start taking this case-the murder of your wife-seriously, I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises."   
  
"You're going to kick me out of my own house?" Castiel laughs, "I would like to see you tr-"   
  
"The man stalking your wife sat outside your house in the bushes, observing her night after night through the window. Now, this guy is smart and this isn't his first murder, that much is clear. He was wearing gloves and made his attack on the darkest night of the year. But there is one thing he forgot to take into account." he pauses, signaling for Castiel to join him by the window, "Time."   
  
***  
  
Dean finds himself situated in a club on the other side of town by the time night rears its ugly head once again. He orders a single drink, consuming it slowly as he observes the slew of sweaty bodies, pressed up against each other, dancing slow and sensually to the beat of the music. He finds himself drawn to a particular blonde with her tongue down another man's throat. Minutes later, the blonde leads the man into a back room. Dean remains seated, waiting patiently. An hour passes before the blonde submerges and parts ways with her partner. She struts past him unknowingly, the silver band on her finger catching his eye.        
    
Finally he stands, discreetly trailing behind her through the dim cobblestone streets of Boston, taking refuge in the shadows. His eyes, dark with lust, examine her body as she walks, taking careful note of the distinct bounce in her step. The strapless deep red dress she wears wrapped tightly around her slim body, inches farther and farther up her thighs as she walks. Her heels click against the sidewalk and Dean observes his surroundings. There is not a soul in sight to witness what he is about to do.   
  
The exposed skin on her shoulders and back sends a rush to his head.  _Kill her._ The voices echo over and over again in his head.  _Kill her. Kill her. Kill her._ He increases the speed of his footsteps as his fingers twitch at his sides.  _Kill her_. A nearby alleyway catches his attention as he closes in on her.  _Kill her. Kill her._  
  
Sensing the unwelcome company, the blonde turns around. Her eyes widen in horror when she is met by a handsomely horrifying face that belongs to a man she has never seen before in her life. A shrill shriek escapes her red lips, catching Dean off guard. He quickly collects himself, clamping a hand over her mouth and dragging her into the nearby alleyway, away from civilization and any curious eyes. She struggles in his grip, kicking and scratching away at her offender. His strength overcomes her struggle and she ends up roughly pressed against a brick wall.  
  
"You've been a naughty girl." he whispers, "Where does your fiance think you are? Out with friends for the night?" His hot breath against her face sends shivers down her spine.   
  
"Hallppmm me!" her screams are muffled by his rough hand.   
  
"No one can hear you." he states, low and intimidating, his voice barely audible. The corner of his lips twitch upwards into a smirk as he positions his free hand against her throat. The blonde quivers in his hands for a moment before driving a knee into his crotch. Dean screams out in agony, releasing the woman from his grasp. She runs down the gloomy cobblestone streets as fast as her two feet can carry her, wailing for help with frightful tears rolling down her cheeks. Her heart pounds in her chest as the wind whips through her hair. The stranger quickly composes himself, chasing after her. He gains distance on her quickly, embracing her petite figure from behind and lifting her into the safety of the shadows. She continues forcefully kicking and screeching out in protest, making practical use of her elbows as she clocks him in the face. He remains unaffected by the harsh blow.   
  
This time, he throws her to the ground and straddles her, pinning her arms above her head in complete dominance.   
  
"You fucking bitch." he curses, losing control as the voices in his head become louder and louder, "You are going to rot in hell for what you did." Without hesitation, he brings both of his hands around her neck, squeezing harshly. Her desperate cries for help come to a halt and are replaced with gasps and sputters. The assailant furrows his eyebrows in confusion as his phone begins furiously vibrating in his pocket. Frustrated, he loosens his grip on the blonde's neck.   
  
"If you make one sound." he starts, removing one hand to reach back into his jacket pocket to retrieve something, "God help me I will stab you in the eye." She gasps for air as her windpipe opens once again, helplessly nodding her head in agreement as a shiny metal object comes into perspective. He positions the sharp object a few inches from the woman's eyeball, using his other hand to answer his phone.   
  
"Hello?" he asks, his dangerous eyes never leaving the blonde's.   
  
"Dean?" a familiar voice rings through his pounding ears.  
  
"Cas?"   
  
"Hi..uh.." he stops, collecting his thoughts, "So remember that murder I told you about? Well they're kicking me out of my place and..I don't really have anywhere to go. I was just wondering..sorry I know it's late and I am probably interrupting your evening.."   
  
"Spit it out." Dean chuckles, the animalistic grin never leaving his face.   
  
"Can I spend the night at your place? Just for tonight?" he gulps nervously from the other line.   
  
"I don't see a problem with that."   
  
"You-you don't?"   
  
"Nah. I'll text you my address in a few minutes, I'm just about to wash a few dirty dishes." he smirks down at the girl.   
  
"Sounds good! Thank you so much man." he rambles on.   
  
"No problem. I guess I'll see you soon then."   
  
"Thanks again." Castiel beams before the line goes blank.   
  
Dean smirks, tucking the phone back into his pocket.   
  
"Now, where were we?" he murmurs, placing his hands back onto the woman's neck. She brings her hands up to her neck, furiously clawing away at his skin. He presses his thumbs deeper into the crevice of her throat with all the strength he can muster. A few minutes pass as the blonde's eyes roll back into her head before shutting closed. He continues squeezing, ensuring that his victim is not left alive to tell the world that he is the  _'Boston Strangler_ '. Dean takes a few breaths in, biting his lip and smirking in satisfaction at the dead woman beneath him.  _Kill them all._  
  
He gathers himself, hissing at the stinging coming from his right hand. Bringing it up to his face, he notices red liquid beginning to ooze from the cut.   
  
"Fuck." he curses,  _"FUCK!"_    
  
He kneels down, examining the lifeless body for any traces of his own blood that could throw him in prison forever. When he comes up clean, Dean stands up, taking a few deep breaths before pulling out his phone and texting Castiel the address to his apartment. The dim glow of the streetlights follow him through the cobblestone streets as he makes his way back to the club, leaving the discarded woman lying dead in the shadows.


	3. Unruly Encounters

He should have waited. He should have had more impulse control. He had nearly painted a red target on his back and provided the police with a few arrows. One drop, that's all it would take. One single drop of his blood and Dean would single-handedly become the most wanted man in America. His photo would have been plastered on every billboard across the country, broadcasted nation wide to keep everyone on constant and high alert. His absolute stupidity would have inevitably became the root of his own downfall. He would be enclosed by bars for the remainder of his sad and miserable life, forced to abide by the rules and stomach whatever vile concoction the prison cafeteria had decided to serve him. And most importantly, there would have been no escape.

The surface of Dean's right hand burns, a perpetual reminder of the feisty blonde he had abandoned a few miles back in a dark and musty alleyway. Still, the only remorse he feels is towards himself. He should have taken greater precautions-worn gloves and waited for the dead of night when the unsuspecting citizens of Boston are all fast asleep in their homes, taking no particular notice to the death and destruction strolling through the city just behind the safety of their thin walls.

 

He averts his eyes from any suspicious eyes who could have been watching him through tinted windows, taking deep breaths with every step he takes. He adjusts his posture, fixing his eyes on the cobblestone beneath his feet. Finally, he reaches his car, still parked in the club parking lot and silently awaiting his return. The man settles into his vehicle, taking in a long, drawn out breath and pulling out his phone. Not thinking much of it, he creates a new contact with the phone number, simply giving him the label 'Cas'. Immediately, he texts the handsome stranger his address. Not waiting for a response, he starts his car and steps on the gas, wanting to arrive at his apartment before Castiel does. He smiles, licking his lips as he drives down the bumpy roads. The blue eyed man's sudden need for a place to sleep gives Dean the perfect alibi. Maybe tomorrow he will pack his belongings and move onto the next unsuspecting town. Vegas would be nice this time of year.

 

As Dean pulls into the parking lot, he shakes the thought of the nights' events from his head. His darkened green eyes, glazed over with desire, revert back to their normal state. He fiddles with his keys as he walks, graciously greeting his neighbours with a warm smile and a slight wave. One women in particular catches his eye, lingering for a moment longer than all the rest. She blushes, mentally apologizing for staring.

"I don't believe I've seen you around here before." he smiles down at her, "Are you new?" 

 

"I uh..." she trails off, alarmed that he is engaging in conversation with her, "I'm here with my roommate, visiting family." Her hand moves to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Dean instinctively examines her finger, slightly relieved to find it bare. "How about you?"

 

"Oh y'know, I wanted a change of scenery, figured Boston is pretty nice this time of year." Dean smiles, taking careful notice to the blush that creeps up onto the stranger's pale face, "I would love to stay and chat but I'm actually expecting company within the next few minutes."

 

"Of course, " she pauses biting her lip, "sorry for holding you up. I should get back in there before my roommate throws a fit because she had to unpack everything all on her own."

 

"I'll see you around then," Dean smiles, flashing her his signature white smile, "neighbour." He watches intently as the girl turns, disappearing into the room across from his. Surprisingly enough, this time there are no voices in his head. The monsters had been muzzled, for the time being anyways. His fingers grip the door to his apartment, twisting and pulling it open to reveal a large and messy space.

 

As soon as the door shuts behind him, he gets to work, frantically organizing the room for the blue eyed stranger he had met a few hours ago in a bar downtown. His lips tingle at the ghastly memory of Castiel's sudden dominance. How, for a moment, his violent tendencies had fled his body, replaced with pure bliss and something he can't quite put his finger on. As Dean passes by a mirror in his bedroom, his appearance startles him. His once slicked back hair is now completely disheveled. He recalls the long slender fingers tangled in his dirty blond hair, tugging and grasping, even clawing away at his sculp. His jaw tightens and he stalks into the bathroom, turning on the tap and running his hands under the refreshing water. Dean brings his hands up to his messy hair, running his fingers carefully through each strand until his hair remains uniformly in place. He washes his hands for good measure, paying specific attention to the fresh wound on the top of his hand. A sudden knock at the door sends a jolt through his body. He takes a moment to collect himself before answering the door.

 

"Hey." he greets Castiel, "Come on in." Cas smiles up at Dean, stepping past him into the room. His eyes scan the area, examining his living quarters for the next few hours.

 

"Thanks again for doing this." Castiel smiles as Dean shuts the door, "I just-the cops are driving me crazy. Can you believe they kicked me out of my own damn house? Not that I would get much sleep anyways considering.." he trails off for a moment, "I didn't really have anywhere else to go."

 

"It's no problem at all." the green eyed man reassures him, "Excuse the mess, been 'while since I've had any guests." The thick southern drawl of Dean's rough voice sends silent shivers down Castiel's spine. "Can I get you anything to eat?" Cas' eyes fix on Dean's, carefully studying the flecks of green in his own eyes.

 

"No." he finally answers, "I'm fine." His breath is obviously taken away by the very nature of the man who stands before him. Something about Dean told Castiel to run for the hills and never look back. But the other part, the part that got under his skin and made him sweat, told him to take his face in his hands and kiss him until they were both blue in the face.

 

"Well help yourself if you change your mind." Dean breaks eye contact with him, walking ahead of Cas to the direction of his bathroom. "I'm gonna get changed into something less formal." Castiel's gaze is drawn to Dean's large hands, tediously loosening the tie around his neck. As he disappears into the bathroom, Cas lets out a breath. His mind wonders to what else a tie would be useful for. Coming here was a huge mistake and he damn well knows it, but he can't bring himself to leave. He takes a few footsteps, descending deeper and deeper into the foreign room. A few framed pictures catch his attention. His rough fingers graze over the decorative frame, peering down to get a closer look. A younger, skinnier version of Dean stares back at him, along with a younger boy whom he presumes is his brother, and a taller brute of a man who must be Dean's father. 

"What are you doing?" an animalistic voice questions. Castiel flinches at the sudden sound, nearly dropping the frame. 

"Sorry, the pictures caught my eye and I was curiou-" he freezes, mesmerized by a very shirtless Dean with clenched fists who stands only a few feet away from him.

"Don't worry about it.." Dean sighs, his eyes silently flickering to the closet behind Castiel before they return to his eyes. "I just like my space." he nearly snaps, causing the blue eyed man's heart to jump. "Look uh.." he clears his throat, pushing aside the beastly tone of his counterpart, "The bathroom's all yours." Castiel nods slowly and hesitantly, ripping his eyes from Dean's toned abdomen and sun kissed skin, and taking a few steps cautiously around him. When he reaches the security of the bathroom door he shuts it, turning on the light and catching his reflection in the mirror. His figure slumps against the door as his chest heaves in and out. Dean's presence in itself is enough to evoke feelings of discomfort, but Dean without a shirt..angry Dean without a shirt intimidates Castiel more than imaginable. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and goosebumps layer across his gentle skin. All he has to do is survive the night, sounds simple enough...right?

Dean watches the bathroom door close behind Castiel before walking over to his closet. His fingers grip the doorknob, waiting for the sound of running water before pulling it open. His right hand unclenches to reveal the petite cross necklace. He sighs, allowing the small piece of jewelry to hang in the air for a moment. The cross dangles back in forth, almost in a hypnotizing motion. Dean's green eyes follow it, enticed by the simplicity of such an object, but also the higher power it represents. He reaches deep into the closet, pushing the clothes aside to reveal a loose board in the wall behind a chest containing gloves and scarves. Pulling the plank free, he drops the necklace into the abyss and snaps the plank back into place, positioning the chest as it was a few seconds ago. Finally, he repositions the clothing and shuts the door.

Focusing his attention on the newly found silence of the apartment, Dean shakes his head, walking over to the pull out couch he has never made use of before. When Castiel emerges from the bathroom in his favourite AC/DC shirt and gray pajama bottoms, he is shocked to find Dean lying on the pull out couch. 

"What are you doing?" he demands in an unusual tone of voice that suggests dominance. Dean raises an eyebrow at the eldest of the two, his primal instincts now on high alert. "Get out." he demands, taking a few heavy steps towards Dean.

"Excuse me?" Dean challenges with a smug smirk while sitting up on his forearms. 

"You heard me. Out." Castiel repeats, "I am the guest in your home and you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight." Dean chuckles at Castiel's weak attempt to assert power. 

"You know, Cas." he breathes, "You shouldn't use that tone around me." Dean's voice lowers a few octaves and sends shivers down Castiel's spine once again. 

"And why is that?" Castiel demands, struggling to grasp onto his dominance. 

"Because.." Dean starts, standing up to meet Castiel's blue eyes. His eyes darken with lust and meet the ground as he deliberately takes his bottom lip with his teeth, biting it sensually. "I might not be able to control myself.." his eyes snap open to confidently meet his gaze. The intense words paralyze Castiel. Unsure of how to react, he appears to be unfazed.

"Who says I want you to?" he smirks, tilting his head to the side but never leaving the stranger's gaze. Castiel's words reawaken Dean's craving as his stomach twists and turns in excitement. Nearly pouncing forward, Dean grasps onto the fabric of Cas' T-shirt, smashing their lips together in a heated and sloppy kiss. The immense amount of intensity becomes too much for Castiel as he pushes the younger man down on the pull out mattress. His hands position themselves on Dean's nearly bare legs, dragging his fingernails up his thighs. Dean moans in pleasure, biting Castiel's lip and accidentally drawing blood. Castiel tastes the iron in his mouth but doesn't seem to care as his fingers hook onto the waistband of Dean's boxers. Dean's mouth quickly moves to the base of Castiel's neck when suddenly, a nearby ringing sound interrupts them. 

"Crap." Castiel curses. 

"Ignore it." Dean demands, almost forcefully. Castiel nods, bringing his lips back to Dean's. The second time the phone rings, Castiel sighs. 

"I'll be right back." he murmurs, paying no attention to the sinister look behind Dean's sapphire eyes.

"Hello?" he asks, a hint of frustration laced in his voice. 

"Mr. Novak?" a rather English voice asks from the other end of the line. 

"What is it?"

"There has been another murder." Balthazar sighs. 

"And why does this concern me?" Castiel demands, stealing a glance at Dean, who has stripped completely naked. 

"Because we believe this woman was killed by the same man who killed your wife, and now we have a lead." he pauses for a second, "I would like to meet with you down by Cheeky's." 

"...The strip club on the other side of town?" Cas questions. Dean's eyes widen at the realization of what the mysterious phone call is about. Becoming suddenly self-conscious of the defined red scratch marks on his right hand, he places it under the blankets on the pull out mattress, hoping to shield the violent wound from his new blue-eyed friend.

"Yes. As soon as you can." Balthazar states, "But I will advise you that I am not very patient." he adds before the line goes dead.

Castiel turns to Dean with a long sigh.

"Some idiot detective wants me to meet him concerning my dead wife on the other side of town." 

"Why not stay?" Dean suggests, hoping to persuade Castiel to stay the night so he can make a quick and hasty getaway come sunrise. "I mean, first they kick you out of your own house, and now they expect you to be at their beck and call whenever they damn well please. If you ask me, meeting with him will just show them that you are under their control." 

"I know." Cas sighs, "But I kind of owe it to my wife to find the bastard that did this to her." 

Bastard huh? Dean's inner demon stirs inside of him again. 

"It sounds to me like you owe her jack shit." Castiel considers this for a moment.

"Come with me." he concludes. 

"What?" Dean laughs, terror rising inside of him. 

"Come with me. It'll piss off the detective and when we return we can finish from where we started." 

"What if he thinks I'm a suspect or something, revisiting the crime scene to get off?" Dean suggests in a mocking tone, sending Castiel into hysterics. 

"Yeah, because everything about you screams IM A SERIAL KILLER!" 

"I could be." Dean smirks. 

"Yeah, uh huh, and I'm the freaking easter bunny." 

"Alright fine." Dean sighs, "I'll play along and come to the crime scene with you...but when we get back, you're going to be the only one playing along to my games." 

"Sounds like a good idea to me." Cas gulps. 

Dean shoots Castiel one last innocently evil smile, pulling on a pair of discarded jeans on the floor, along with a white v-neck. Castiel shamelessly removes his pajama pants, replacing them with a pair of track pants. 

"You look comfortable." Dean teases him. 

"Well not all of us can look like a model every second of every day." 

Dean raises his hands up in defense, following Castiel out the door and flicking off the light switch as he watches the light that once illuminated the room fall to a deep blackness, just the way he likes it.


	4. Crash

It is nearly midnight when the two finally arrive at the crime scene. Flashing red and blue lights illuminate the cobblestone streets, waking up the neighbours and raising many questions. Castiel's stomach turns at the definite sight of the outline of a woman's frail body, resting all too peacefully underneath a white sheet. He has never been all too well when dealing with violence and loss, and in his own way, he mourned the poor woman.   
  
"It's disgusting." Castiel mutters to his companion as he closes the car door, "What kind of monster would you have to be to take another human being's life?" Dean flinches at his words, the demon inside of him turning and twisting with an immense rage. "I almost feel sorry for the guy. I mean think about it, he must have some shit life if his extracurricular activities involve murder, probably lonely too. I just hope they catch this guy fast, he has no right to be walking around freely on the same streets as his victims. What he does deserve is to rot in an old prison cell." Castiel chuckles at the end of his statement, peering over at Dean for some reason, who has been oddly quiet ever since they arrived. Luckily, a French accent rings through their ears before Dean has a chance to say something that he will regret.   
  
"Good, you're here." Balthazar starts, ushering for Castiel to come closer, "Who is he?" his eyes squint, examining Dean with far too much precision than Dean felt comfortable with.  
  
"A friend." Castiel states bluntly, "Now what is so important that I had to drive all the way across town for?"  
  
"Mr. Novak, this is a completely classified investigation, and you should be grateful that I am offering to share even the slightest amount of information with you." Balthazar pauses, "You, and you only." he stresses the last word, his eyes catching Dean's for a brief moment, biting the inside of his cheek in obvious irritation.  Castiel releases a long, drawn out, breath of air, wanting nothing more than to argue with the bigoted detective, but holding his tongue for his wife's sake.   
  
"Do you mind waiting for me in the car?" Cas sighs, glancing over at Dean with pleading eyes. Dean was furious. Of course he minds waiting in the car like a filthy dog while the detective reveals apparent evidence to his new friend! Evidence that could label him a convicted felon, and send him on the run once again. If this asshole detective is serious, Dean could be looking at problems far worse than he had back in Kansas, a place he used to call home until he was forced to flee. He is not ready to call the inside of an old, rancid, prison cell his home for the remainder of his days. The scratch lingering on Dean's hand burns, and it is almost as if someone has taken a flame to his skin.   
  
"No problem." he smiles at the elder man, discretely shooting daggers at the uncultured swine before him. He turns to face away from the pair, his ears staying weary of their heavily muffled conversation.   
  
"Alright, I'm alone now." Cas starts, breathing out a heavy sigh and hinting at his more than obvious exasperation, "What's so important that it can't wait until morning?" Balthazar glances behind Castiel at Dean's distant figure, now a mere silhouette of the night. He digs through the pockets of his black overcoat, fingering a small leather notepad and pulling it out.   
  
"His fifth kill." the man murders peering down at the messy, almost angry, simple strokes of ink decorating the simple piece of paper like a small canvas. "Blonde, pretty, engaged."   
  
"Why is this relevant?" Castiel sighs, silently drumming the tips of his fingers against the side of his leg impatiently.  
  
"Do you know what this looks like to me?" the detective asks to no one in particular, making eye contact with the blue-eyed grieving husband, "He stalked her, probably silently watching her cheat on her fiance from inside the club. Once he had her isolated, he followed from a safe distance, using the darkness of the night to his advantage. Once he felt comfortable, he pounced on her. One of her stilettos was found a few inches away form her body, insinuating a struggle. The harsh bruising found along her neck is far more aggressive compared to the other victims, the darkness of the colour varying along different parts of her neck. My guess is that, unlike the others, she fought back. So then I was thinking maybe, just maybe, the killer was taken off guard. Whenever a murderer is put on the spot, they tend to mess up, leave a subtle trace of their identity behind. Serial killers have a routine, a certain set of guidelines they need to follow in order to get the kill exactly right, and anything off putting, like a struggle, may lead the assailant to stray from his routine. And so I started questioning, maybe he did mess up, they always do. And sure enough, we may have found traces of blood under Jane Doe's fingernails."   
  
"So you have DNA evidence that can put this guy behind bars?" Castiel confirms, having watched enough crime movies and television shows to know that it usually isn't that simple, "..And directly link him to Meghan's murder?"  Balthazar sighs, closing the small, leather notebook and shoving it back into his pocket. "Something tells me that catching this guy won't be that easy. Even if you do, you can only tie him to the one murder."

  
"Not exactly the reaction I was expecting from you." he huffs, amazed at Castiel's sheer ignorance, "I come to you with a bloody revelation in this case, and you brush me off, assuming that I don't know how to do my job properly."   
  
"No offense, detective, but it's been how many days since Meg's murder? Three? And you're just now finding some sort of lead to bring this piece of shit in?" Castiel scoffs, crossing his arms firmly against his chest, "The first forty-eight hours of an investigation are crucial, after that, you might as well give the killer a new passport and kiss any sort of justice goodbye."   
  
"I can see that it was a mistake calling you", he pauses, collecting himself before he does something unprofessional, "Keep checking the news, this fucker will be mine sooner than you know it."  
  
"Big talk, detective. I hope to God you're right." Cas murmurs under his breath, turning on his heel and heading back to Dean's car. 

The elder is resting anxiously in the driver's seat, carefully examining the hasty scratch marks on the surface of his hand, using the gentle presence of the moonlight to his advantage as he twists his wrist back and forth. Dean is careful, extremely careful, and there is no way in hell that some twiggy blonde bitch will be the root of his demise. His urge to kill, the thrill of the hunt, eats away at his tired form as he lets out a heavy sigh. He peers through the tinted windows at his new lover, who has now turned his back from the detective and is headed in his direction. Maybe befriending the husband of one of his victims was stupid, idiotic, even, though he supposes that one last night of sloppy, consensual fun wouldn't hurt anybody.   
  
"How'd it go?" Dean asks, showing a genuine interest on the progress the local police force have made on throwing his texan ass behind bars. The blue-eyed man sighs, closing the passenger seat door and running a frustrated hand through his messy brown locks.   
  
"With detective hard-ass over there? Swell." Castiel mocks, nodding at Dean to start the engine. Dean peers down, subtly biting his lower lip. He needs to know what incriminating evidence the detective found linking him to the pale corpse lying peacefully under a sheet a short distance away from him. More importantly, he needs to know how long he has until he has to say goodbye to Boston and hello to some other state in America. Maybe he can discreetly visit his southern roots and head down to Tennessee, settle down with a decent woman and start a brand new white picket fence, apple pie life together. Or maybe he will make his way all across the country to Sacramento, after all he has always wanted to visit California. Hell, if he's lucky, he could even cross the Canadian border before a full fledged man hunt is tracking him down. "Good news is that apparently the killer isn't as smart as we thought he was."  
  
"Oh?" Dean asks, painfully swallowing back a crude retort.   
  
"He was reckless." Castiel explains, "Possibly left some DNA behind at the crime scene."   
  
Dean loses concentration of everything surrounding him aside from his knuckles, gripping furiously at the steering wheel. He mindlessly listens to the man in the passenger seat rant on and on about the shit law enforcement this city has, imagining himself reaching over to slap the mumbling idiot. That would sure as hell shut him up. The green-eyed man closes his eyes, steadying his rapidly beating heart and clenching his teeth so hard he is sure that the veins on his neck are not far away from popping.  _Kill him._  The voice echoes in his head.  _Just kill him and flee._  
  
He fantasizes for a moment about how easy it would be to take Castiel's life, especially whilst taking the shady back roads to avoid the heavy streetlights and speculation of the city. He could just pull over, his excuse would be a flat tire. He would claim to have a spare tire in the back, leaving Castiel alone for a moment. When he does return, it will be from behind, and his new lover would never know what hit him. He can imagine his strong grip around Castiel's throat as he flips him around to face himself. The shallow breaths of his new friend coming to an end as his fingers tighten around his neck. The life in his beautiful blue eyes slowly draining as he stares up at him in realization of what he truly is, what he truly was from the beginning. A horrible beast of a man, an abomination to the human race, or perhaps a spawn of satan himself, or maybe, quite simply a monster. And so he would stare right back.  _Goodbye new friend, potential lover. May we never meet again._  He smirks down at the body, limp and frail in his hands. Suddenly, the man's eyes flicker open once again. Dean nearly drops him in shock.   
  
 _"Dean."_  the dead man urges,  _"Dean!"_  He reaches forward, firmly clasping his own hands around Dean's neck with a smirk, squeezing. His windpipe tightens and Dean gasps for air, clawing at the hands around his throat. "Dean!" the voice repeats, almost demonic sounding. He closes his eyes tightly, the fire in his lungs building at a rapid rate.  _"Open your eyes, Dean."_  Castiel's voice growls.   
  
"DEAN!" the voice repeats itself, back to it's normal tone, "DEAN LOOK OUT!" it finally screams.  
  
 When he opens his eyes, he notices the numbness in his knuckles on the steering wheel. Castiel's hands are suddenly on his and he relaxes, that is until he is blinded by a bright set of headlights. Finally registering what is happening, Dean swerves, bracing himself for the inevitable collision.   
  
***  
  
Balthazar paces along the long, poorly lit hallway, anxiously awaiting the return of his assistant. He has been uneasy ever since his heated conversation with Castiel, and is more than eager to prove that he can do his job and catch the disgusting filth invading the innocence of the country once and for all.   
  
The sound of a door swinging open catches his attention as he snaps his head around to meet the source of the sound. Anna's long red hair sways behind her as she closes the door and turns her attention towards the French man.   
  
"Anything?" he asks, taking a few steps towards her.   
  
"There are faint traces of skin and blood under the woman's fingernails, and we believe them to belong to the assailant." Anna smiles, placing her hands in her labcoat. "I believe that in a few mere days, we will have the identity of the Boston Strangler. After that, it's just a whole bunch of advertising, plastering his face all over the media and hoping for a lead. From there it's really a piece of cake."   
  
"Good work, Milton." Balthazar smiles down at the girl, "Keep me updated, I want to know as soon as the DNA analysis is complete."   
  
"Will do." she nods, shooting him a warm smile before she disappears through the same glass door she emerged from.   
  
Balthazar can finally breathe as he is left alone.  
  
"I've got you now, you son of a bitch." he chuckles to himself before disappearing down the long, vacant hallway.


	5. Unforeseen Emotions

He can feel it now, the squealing tires, the hot rubber against the asphalt, the inevitable numbness of the immense shock that will invade every inch and crevice of his body, the screams of pure agony. Or maybe the incredibly revolting silence following the impact, his body's way of tricking him into believing that he will be okay until he is met by his imminent death. Perhaps it will seem like a wonderful dream, a colossal blur in his final moments. Where to then? He was never a huge believer in God, but something inside of him was constantly screaming,  the part trapped and desperately trying to claw its way to the surface, constantly shaming him for his vile and repulsive actions towards fellow human beings, did believe in the eventual inferno. His body would be consumed by the blazing fires of hell, offered up to satan on a silver platter to poke and prod at as he chooses, left for all eternity with absolutely no hope of salvation.   
  
Castiel braces himself for the blow, closing his eyes tightly and clinging on to the steering wheel for dear life. He wonders if he will survive, and if so, to what extent. Will he ever be able to walk again? Will he forget his own name? Will he die old and alone slowly? He attempts to focus on the here and now, praying that he took hold of the wheel in time to save both of their lives. His body numbs, preparing for the wave of excruciating pain to follow.   
  
As the headlights pass them, the car is thrown sideways, causing the two passengers to scream out in fear. Dean slowly opens his eyes as the car comes to a sudden halt.   
  
"Cas?" he asks, worry flooding his voice. He peers over at his blue-eyed friend, shocked to be met with the sight of him unconscious. A drop of blood rolls down his forward and onto the seat beneath him. "Shit." Dean breathes, unbuckling his own seat belt and cursing as he notices a shard of glass stuck in his own arm. Wincing slightly, he pulls it out and throws it to the side. "Damn it Cas, wake up!" he screams to the limp body in his passenger seat. Dean digs through his pocket, pulling out his own cell phone which miraculously survived the crash. With shaky fingers, he dials 9-1-1.   
  
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a woman replies from the other end of the line.   
  
"Dean..?" an unsteady Castiel groans, his bright blue eyes beginning to reveal themselves once again. Slightly relieved, Dean fixes his gaze on Castiel, forgetting all about his phone call. "What happened?" he asks, readjusting his eyes to fit his surroundings. The eldest of the pair struggles to unbuckle Castiel's seatbelt.   
  
"You're gonna be just fine." Dean promises, secretly doubting himself, "Stay with me, okay? Don't you dare close your eyes again." Castiel fades in and out of consciousness quickly, keeping his eyes focused on Dean's. What the hell should he do? They are still on the other side of the city and there are no familiar buildings in sight, and even if there were, he wouldn't have the slightest idea of how to reach them, let alone who to ask for help. Suddenly, he remembers his cell phone. Twisting his neck in all directions, he desperately searches for the discarded phone.   
  
The crash itself wasn't dire at all, if anything they were extremely fortunate to have gotten off so easy. Despite everything, the couple had managed to take control of the steering wheel just in time. The passing vehicle merely skimmed the side of Dean's own car, causing the front window to shatter and the car to be thrown off of the road. Besides a few scratches, the pair would be fine. Unfortunately, Castiel's head was flung forward somehow during the collision, forcibly smashing his forehead against the dashboard and knocking him unconscious. Dean is smart enough to realize the potential severity of the situation. Best case scenario? Cas was just knocked out because of the sudden shock, and will be left with a cut on his head to remember the night by. Worst case scenario? He has a concussion, and will need to receive medical attention promptly to ensure that his memory remain in tact.  
  
"You listen to me Castiel" Dean starts. eying his phone a few inches away from his right foot, "I am going to make sure that you receive the best medical care around. All you have to do is stay awake, okay? Can you do that for me?" Castiel's eyes falls closed for a moment, opening slightly as he nods back at Dean in agreement.   
  
Dean's gaze shifts from his barely conscious passenger back to his phone. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he prepares to redial the three familiar digits when he notices that he hasn't hung up, which means that the police have most likely already tracked the call and are well on their way to the scene of the crime. To be sure, Dean clears his throat, preparing to speak to the dispatcher on the other end of the line.   
  
"Hello?" he asks, his voice sounding much more frantic than anticipated, "Is anyone there?"   
  
"Sir? Do you have an emergency?" the woman asks, her voice sounding forcibly calm.   
  
"My...friend and I got into a car crash and his head is bleeding." Dean states, glancing over to ensure that Castiel kept his promise about staying awake. Sure enough, still struggling to keep his wonderful blue eyes open, Castiel was staring directly at Dean.   
  
"I've already sent police your way, I'll send an ambulance with them. What I do need to know is your name, sir." she replies. Dean contemplates his response with extreme caution.   
  
"My name is Dean-" he presses the large 'END CALL' button on his phone. Redirecting his full attention to Castiel, Dean leans in closer, raising one of his large hands to cup the stranger's face with.  
  
"Cas?" he asks, "I'm going to search for something in the backseat real quick, but just because I have my back to you doesn't give you permission to fall asleep on me, okay?"   
  
The youngest of the two smiles weakly, his blue eyes struggling to keep hold of Dean's green ones. He ponders for a moment on what harm resting his eyes for just a second would do. No, he can't let Dean down, and he can't let Meg down...again. Oh Meg, God rest her soul. Castiel had always considered himself to be a decent man, and a good husband, but obviously his wife had thought otherwise. As much as it hurts him to know that he wasn't enough for her, and that his beloved wife, whom he had promised to love eternally, had sought out the affection of another man, Castiel would never wish death-especially one as violent as hers-on anyone. In his books, no one deserves death as a punishment for a few indiscretions. And as much as it pains him to say it, Castiel knew long before her death. He knew that the spark that he and Meg had once shared had faded and that Meg was...unhappy. He knew that he was not enough for her, and that as hard as he tried he would never be. Most importantly, he was well aware of Meg's nighttime adventures, arriving home in the dead of night, reeking of cheap perfume and alcohol among...other things-other men. To be completely honest, the betrayal didn't surprise him. It sure as hell hurt him, but it did not surprise him.   
  
Castiel's inner thoughts are interrupted as Dean's voice booms throughout the small space once again. He flinches a little at the sudden noise.   
  
"Keep your eyes open!" he demands, "Focus on my voice if you have to, just for the love of God, stay with me Castiel."   
  
Then there's Dean. A texan stranger he met in a bar whilst mourning his dead wife, who in the last twenty four hours has not only challenged his sexuality, but provided him with a bed to sleep in, and is currently doing all that he can to make sure that Castiel doesn't suffer any significant brain damage. How romantic.  
  
Dean shuffles through his belongings in the backseat of his car.   
  
"Come on.." Dean groans, mostly to himself, "It has to be here somewhere." Nearly giving up hope, he finally recovers a gray v-neck shirt from underneath his seat. He tightly grasps the fabric, taking it with him as he leans back into his own seat. Castiel is still there, but just barely. His eyelids have become even heavier than before, feeling as if they weigh a hundred pounds as he struggles to keep them somewhat open. Dean balls the gray fabric up tightly leaning in closer to Castiel as he finally registers the source of the red liquid oozing from the very beginning of Castiel's hairline.  Pieces of glass had managed to dislodge itself from Dean's side and onto the dashboard in front of Castiel. "Shit." Dean breathes, staring at the sharp material protruding from the other man's head.   
  
"Wh..wha" Castiel struggles to speak, only to be cut off by Dean.   
  
"Shh.." he commands in a soft tone, "An ambulance is on its way".  Dean leans closer to Castiel, "I'm just gonna clean you up a little, okay?" With a firm grip on the fabric, he stretches his hand out to Castiel's face, carefully dabbing the fabric on the bloody area surrounding the wound. He is extra careful as he nears the cut, not wanting to make the wound even worse.   
  
"Ttt...Thann..k" Castiel tries, being unable to form the words to thank the southern stranger for his immense kindness. Dean stares down at the man, studying his tired blue eyes and pink lips. The usual pink colour from his face has drained, replacing it with a colourless tint that mirrors his victim's faces right before their final strangled breath. He peers down, softly licking his lips. The space between them is already thin as Dean drops the dirty t-shirt on his own seat and leans forward.   
  
"You don't need to speak." Dean reassures him in a mere whisper, "Save your energy for yelling at me later. After all, I got you into this mess." Castiel hears the man speaking, but can no longer understand him. The regret and sincerity behind Dean's words is immediately lost in a sea of echoes. The voices in his own head are booming, and the world seems as if it were moving in slow motion.   
  
Dean helplessly watches as Castiel's sparkling blue eyes are lost to the darkness.       
  
"No." he protests, "Cas, Damn it! Open your eyes! I am not going to lose you, not like this!" The sight before him is heart wrenching. Dean has seen plenty of dead bodies in his lifetime, and at the moment, Castiel is far too close to resembling one of them. "Cas." he begs in more of a whimper, if anything. Dean leans down, carefully placing his lips on Cas'. Unlike the other kisses that had been shared earlier that same night, this kiss was different. It was tender, a powerful longing that Dean had never known to exist until now. Only this time, Castiel's lips are cold and unresponsive.   
  
As he pulls away from the kiss, he wants to scream. He had never once felt a single drop of emotion in his entire life, and now that he has, a stupid car crash of all things was going to take that from him? Although he may be a repulsive serial killer to some, Dean believes he is entitled to a little happiness before he is inevitably caught. He questions why he cares so much for this man, the same man who he had fantasized of killing only moments ago, causing the collision that may just take whatever sense of hope that Dean has left in the world away from him forever.   
  
Dean releases a breath he didn't know he was holding as the sound of distant sirens echoes throughout the night. In any other circumstance, the very sound would send Dean running for the hills, but right now, all he wants to be is found. 


	6. Only Human

A steady beeping noise echoes throughout the room, and the chaos that once consumed the atmosphere has finally subsided. Everything has dulled to a peaceful euphoria-or maybe that's just the effect of an anaesthetic currently at work on the brunette's forehead. Still, the sensation is like nothing he has ever felt before. It's almost as if he was  floating, or maybe lounging back on a creamy white cloud, but the reality of the situation is far less tranquil.   
  
The human mind in itself is a complex and extraordinary thing. Each brain is simultaneously unique, yet vaguely similar, made up of the same puzzle pieces, but produce remarkably different outcomes. Some humans lack empathy, whereas others may exhibit far too much. One individual may favour blue while the other favours yellow. The human brain is truly incredible, but the one thing that all humans share is the inability for the brain to automatically heal itself. While humans may be intelligent, they are only human. Humans have limitations-restrictions-boundaries that, when struck, can cause permanent damage.  Something as simple as being in the wrong place at the wrong time can have the ability to impact one's entire life. 

Castiel can't help but let his mind wonder. Although his current paralytic state, he questions how and why he has ended up here-wherever here is. He assumes that the mysterious toxins causing his forehead to feel numb are medically certified, and the ominous, but steady beeping, is coming from a heart monitor by the right-no, left-side of his head.   
  
He feels awake, yet still asleep, as if he was dreaming. But the cluster of muffled voices surrounding him are far too real to even be considered a figment of his imagination. Desperate for some answers, he forces his eyes open. When his pupils are met with nothing but deafening blackness, he wants to scream out for help, but the words get tangled in his throat. He begins to panic now, using his own fingers to scratch and claw at his own flesh. As expected, his skin remains unmarked.  
  
Am I dead? He questions himself. How did I get to this place?  
  
All too suddenly, the fire in his veins come to life, scorching Castiel from the inside. His mind buzzes, a harsh hum of emotions crashes over his head like a mack truck. Crash. A crash.   
  
Castiel's eyes fly wide open, being met by a colossal amount of colours and shapes-figures. The voices around him grow louder as his lungs burn then relax at the sudden intake of oxygen. His eyes adjust to the brightness of the room, now focusing on the face above him. A woman's face. She has a delicate face, reminding him of a porcelain doll, with long brown hair fastened back in a high ponytail. With every ounce of strength he has, he forces the corners of his lips upwards into a small smile.   
  
"Hey." she smiles down at him," You're going to be just fine." Castiel watches as she calls for a doctor. The numbness in his head has completely vanished and been replaced by constant pounding. He winces slightly at the pain, turning his head to take in his current surroundings. The first thing he sees is a heart monitor, just as expected.   
  
"Hello." a man's voice catches his attention, "How are you feeling?"   
  
"Tired." Castiel responds all too easily, "And my head is pounding."   
  
"I would like to ask you a few questions if that's alright with you." the man speaks slowly, his voice soothing and gentle. Castiel nods, sitting up as far as his body will allow him. "I'm going to shine a light into your eyes to check your pupil dilation now." he explains, "Just keep your eyes right here." he holds up a finger. Castiel winces as the light hits his left eye, taking a deep breath to relax himself. "What's your name?"  
  
"Castiel Novak." he replies.   
  
"Do you know who the current president is?"   
  
"Barack Obama."   
  
"Do you know where you are?"   
  
"A hospital...somewhere in Boston I'm assuming?"   
  
"Good. Your pupils seem to be dilating normally. However, aside from a few minor contusions, you seem to have sustained a concussion." he pauses, removing the light his eyes and turning it off "The numbness you may have been experiencing a few moments ago was caused by an anesthetic, you had a shard of glass sticking out of your forehead when the paramedics found you, so we stitched up the wound. What's the last thing you remember?"   
  
"I was.." Castiel pauses searching his mind. A collage of images appear before him. His wife, Meg, dead on the floor, the handsome texan stranger from the bar, getting kicked out of his own house, spending the night with the stranger, the southern green-eyed stranger who had happily accepted him as a guest in his home. He remembers the stranger's lips pressed up against his body, the shedding of clothes that followed..."I was spending the night at a friend's house." he explains, "I remember getting a call during the middle of the night.." Castiel pauses once again, squinting his eyes in frustration, "I-I can't remember anything else."   
  
"Do you remember the accident?"  
  
"No...I don't even remember getting into the car."   
  
"Don't worry, short term memory loss is a common side effect in this situation." the doctor pauses, glancing over something written down on a clipboard, "Is there anyone I should contact? A sibling? A parent? A spouse? Maybe the friend you spent the night with?"   
  
"I was an only child.." Castiel trails off, "My wife was murdered a few days ago, and my parents...hell if I know where they are."   
  
"What about your friend?" the doctor glances up from the clipboard, feeling sympathetic for the man before him who has lost everyone important to him in his life.   
  


"I..." Castiel starts, licking his soft pink lips and closing his eyes, "I can't remember his name."   
  
"Well, we have to keep you overnight for observation anyways, so do yourself a favour, try to relax. In time your memory will return, there's no sense stressing over something so minor." the doctor smiles down at Castiel, turning away from him when the attractive nurse that Castiel recognizes from only minutes ago returns.   
  
"I know my shift just ended, but Hanna is running late. I can take care of this patient until she arrives if you need me." the woman smiles softly, flashing a set of pearly white teeth at Castiel's doctor.   
  
"Oh Micheala, what would I do without you?" the doctor replies, unaware that Castiel can hear everything that they are saying. "Thank you again for covering this shift tonight, I know it must've been sudden for you, but I couldn't find a replacement. You'll have to keep me updated on that fancy new law enforcement job of yours." Michaela chuckles, mumbling that she could never forget about him. Wordlessly, the doctor turns back to Castiel, briefly introducing the nurse before exiting the room.   
  
"As you probably overheard.." the nurse trails off, "My name is Michaela and I will be your nurse for the next...well, few minutes." Castiel smiles at her. Hell, he nearly laughs. Everything about her seems genuine and full of life. "Ah good! You haven't lost your sense of humour!"  
  
"How would you even know that I had one to begin with?" he challenges, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.   
  
"I just do." she smiles back, her smile slightly faltering as she recognizes the discomfort in his body language, "Do you need some help lying back down?" Michaela asks.   
  
"You know, normally I would protest to that sort of thing, but considering the current lack of strength I seem to have...I suppose my answer would be yes please." Castiel laughs. Michaela takes a few steps towards him gently placing her hands on his shoulders and guiding him backwards onto the bed. "Thank you." Castiel genuinely smiles, glancing up into her soft and welcoming brown eyes.   
  
"It's no problem, really." she returns a smile his way, "Unfortunately you will now be left in the care of Ms. Hanna Matthews." Michaela explains, increasing the volume of her voice to ensure that the blonde nurse rushing through the hallway and towards Castiel's room hears her.   
  
"Hey!" the blonde nurse protests. Castiel smiles at the playful banter between the two. Once upon a time he and Meg were like that, then shit inevitably hit the fan and well...  
  
"You're one of the good ones, I can tell." Michaela turns towards him once more before leaving, "Take care of yourself." she smiles at him before pivoting on her heel and exiting the room.   
  
***  
  
Dean's lungs are burning as he ducks behind an alley not to far from his apartment to catch his breath. He had been running for what felt like hours, all across town, and all he wants to do is kill something.   
  
It hasn't even been a full eight hours since he last slipped up and provided the police with his DNA, and yet the urge runs deep within his veins. For as long as he can remember, killing was his sweet release, and the only thing that made him feel truly alive and free. With every kill, he grew stronger. With every pale face he wrapped his hands around, he became more and more obsessed. There's just something about playing God that excites him. If there's anything he cares about, it's being in control. The only thing that allows him to feel any emotion is the exact moment when he watches the life drain from his victim's eyes. He is like a heroin addict, and killing is his fix.   
  
But tonight, everything changed for him.  
  
Tonight, he felt something other than the thrill of the kill; he felt love...and it completely and utterly disgusts him.   
  
 _Love?_  Dean scoffs at the thought. How could he have let his guard down and feel so helpless because a stranger got hurt? He hurts people-kills people-for a living, and feels absolutely no empathy or regret whenever he does. Why should the safety of a stranger matter so much to him?   
  
Maybe he's just scared. Maybe that's why he fled before the police arrived.   
  
Either way, Dean knows what he has to do. He needs to get the hell out of town before the DNA results come back and detective federal asshole launches a nationwide manhunt.   
  
"Argh, Dean you idiot!" he exclaims, slamming his fist into the bricks.  
  
 _Love means weakness._  He reminds himself.  
  
He takes a few more deep breaths and steadies himself. He can do this. Dean has been on the run for well over five years  now, he can do it again. New small town, new name, new victim pool, he can just leave and never look back.   
  
He takes a few cautionary steps away from the alleyway, stopping dead in his tracks when he bumps into something-or rather, someone.   
  
"Crap!" Dean curses, staring at the beautiful woman in front of him, "I'm so sorry." he apologizes, kneeling down to pick up the brown purse he had practically knocked out of the woman's hands. She looks vaguely familiar, but Dean then again has seen so many faces-   
  
"No worries." she smiles back at him, catching a glimpse of his face as he hands her the purse, "Hey, you're my neighbour." She tilts her head to the side in curiosity of the mysterious man. Something about him seems....off. "What were you doing out here so late?" she pauses, glancing behind him at the poorly lit alleyway, "And lurking in the darkest corner you could find?"   
  
Dean laughs.  _Oh, if only she knew._  
  
"I went out to a bar with my friend" he lies, "We were stupid and figured he lived close enough to the bar so we would walk."   
  
"So instead of spending the night you decided to take a casual stroll at three in the morning?" she questions, "That still doesn't explain why you were in an alleyway."   
  
She's right, it doesn't.   
  
"My friend decided to bring a girl home with him and wanted his privacy.." Dean trails off, collecting his thoughts, "As for the alleyway.." come on Dean, think, "Honestly, I come here sometimes to just...get away...y'know?"   
  
The brunette nods, taking a few steps forwards in time with Dean.   
  
"So, what were you doing out here?" Dean questions as they walk.   
  
"A friend needed me to cover a shift so I took the bus home." she replies sincerely.   
  
Deans nods as the apartment building comes into their view. The pair are silent as Dean opens the door for the woman and she nods a brief thank you.   
  
"Well, its was nice running into you, Dean."   
  
Dean stills, mortified.   
  
"How do you know my name?" he asks as the mask he is wearing begins to dissolve before her very eyes.  
  
"Oh relax." she chuckles, digging through her purse for her keys, "I heard you talking to someone back in the alley, and since you were the only one around, I assume you're Dean."   
  
Dean laughs nervously, subconsciously scratching the back of his neck. Realizing he had quickly dropped his charade, he smiles.  _He can do this._ He reminds himself to act normal. Normality is the key to his survival. Wordlessly, he stretches out a hand.   
  
"Nice to meet you" he pauses, "I'm Dean Winchester."   
  
In the complete realization of what he had just said, Dean's smile falters.   
  
"Mykie Brooks." she smiles back at him, taking his hand in her own and shaking it.  
  
***

Lieutenant Balthazar Cross lets out a sigh of frustration as he organizes the files on his desk. The case of the 'Boston Strangler' was as good as closed, and yet the F.B.I had insisted in involving themselves with the investigation.   
  
"Bringing in the Feds will only show the bureau that I can't do my job properly." he sighs, clearly frustrated, "Not to mention slow me down. Once those narcissistic idiots come in here tomorrow morning, I will have to review the death of each victim again...I already did that with a fine tooth comb!"  
  
"We both know that's not true." the petite redhead replies from the other side of his desk. Despite the difference in rank, Balthazar has grown quite close to Anna. "You're more than capable of handling this case on your own, you've just got to cooperate with the suits, make them happy while showing them that you can handle this without their help."  
  
"I just got this promotion." he mumbles on, "And I'll be damned if anyone is going to take that from me!"  
  
"Desmond says it'll only be a few days before the blood results come back." she reassures him, "Then we can plaster this guy's face all over the media. He'll be behind bars before you know it. You and I both know that a man can only run so far before he gets sloppy and makes a mistake."  
  
"I hope you're right, Milton." Balthazar sighs, "Because if this guy doesn't go down soon, our department will."   
  
"Do you know who they're bringing in?"   
  
"Quinten Rivers and Michaela Brooks." he replies, "As if things weren't already bad enough without Rivers taking over my investigation. I swear they do it on purpose."  
  
"Like I said before, you're going to close this case." Anna smiles before standing up and walking towards the door.   
  
"I sure hope so." Balthazar sighs placing a hand on his forehead, "Just tell me when Wolfe gets the results back."   
  
"I'll tell you the second I find out." she reassures him once more before leaving the Lieutenant to his thoughts.  
  
***  
  
Castiel had finally managed to get some sleep...that is in between the hourly check ups. He understands though, the doctors mean well and are only looking out for his well-being. Hanna was great to him, and not the worst possible company one could have while cooped up in a stuffy hospital room. Still, he felt like something was missing, that somehow-something-was absent from his life. He felt...incomplete.   
  
Castiel doesn't consider himself much of a dreamer either, so when a mysterious figure appeared in his dreams, he was skeptical. A handsome man with emerald green eyes-only something was different about his gaze-it was almost...empty. He was but a mere stranger to him, crossing paths in the busy streets of Boston. But something...something was familiar.   
  
Maybe it was the way he walked, or the way his eyes met Castiel's. He had definitely met him before. But where?  _How?_    
  
Everyone dreams about strangers right? This can't be anything serious or some sort of sign from the stars. He was probably just another passing face in the streets.  _But what if he wasn't...  
_  
 _Everything happens for a reason right?_  He must know this man.   
  
Suddenly he remembers. The phantom touch of foreign warm fingers as he surrenders his body to the stranger. Those lips- _God, those lips_ -on his chest, on his neck, on his cheekbones, on his lips-  
  
That's it!  
  
His name is on the tip of Castiel's tongue, nearly hidden from existence. Suddenly, Castiel lurches awake, gasping for air.   
  
"Dean!" he practically yells, "His name is Dean, and he was with me!"


	7. Welcome to Hell

Deans smiles politely at Mykie before bidding her a warm goodnight and disappearing behind the four walls of his own apartment. Once the door shuts behind him, Dean cracks his knuckles, harshly taking his bottom lip in his teeth and biting down until a taste resembling copper violates his mouth. He peers at the messy pull out couch a few feet away from him, nearly burning a hole into the fabric with his intense stare. Letting out a deep breath, he releases his lip from the fierce grasp of his teeth, taking a few steps towards the mess of pillows and blankets left behind by his new friend.   
  
_You should have let him die._ The voice in his head growls at him.   
  
"I know." Dean replies, grinding his teeth together and rubbing his temples, desperately trying to shut them up.  
  
_He is just another slab of meat meant for you to kill, you made a mistake._  
  
"I know."  
  
_That repulsive vermin is going to ruin your life. He needs to die._  
  
"I KNOW!" Dean screams into the void of his vacant apartment. In one swift movement, he brings both of his hands up to his forehead, slamming the palms of his hands against his own skin over and over again. His head is spinning, and he is becoming more and more impatient by each passing second. He needs to kill, and he needs to do it  _now._  
  
But he can't.  
  
While Dean may be spiraling out of control, he refuses to succumb to his insatiable thirst for power. If he does, he knows what will happen. Dean is in enough trouble as it is, and he cannot let his urges suffocate him into leaving more evidence behind for the police, especially when that's what they want him to do.   
  
So he'll give the uniforms one day of chasing evidence that doesn't even exist. In the mean time, he needs to find a way to get rid of the evidence that already does, and is waiting in a lab somewhere to be identified as the blood of the 'Boston Strangler'. It won't take them long to realize that Dean Winchester leads a secret life away from just another average Joe, boy next door, normal guy.  
  
***

Hanna listens intently to every word Castiel says, feeling bad enough as it is that such a decent guy is lying before her in a hospital bed, missing a piece of his own memory.   
  
"His name is Dean!" Castiel insists, "He was with me in the car during the crash. He was the one who called the ambulance. He saved my life!"   
  
"Mr. Novak." Hanna whispers in a comforting tone, "You have to rest, you've been through a lot tonight."   
  
"Please." he begs, "You have to believe me." His voice grows small and the petite blonde peers back at him with soft eyes.   
  
"Tell you what." she offers, "If you get some sleep, I will look into this Dean guy for you."  
  
"Thank you, Hanna." he smiles up at her with desperation flooding his eyes. Lying back down, he stares up at the plain white ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes and having his mind dominated by the faint memories of Dean, a texan green-eyed stranger who saved his life.  


***  
  
A slim brunette approaches the large glass doors to the Boston Police Department, her long hair swaying in the wind behind her as she walks. She is dressed in a white dress shirt, paired with a black blazer and pants to match. As she reaches out to grasp the door handle, a large masculine hand beats her to it. She peers upwards at the familiar man, squinting her eyes slightly to dull the harsh beams of light coming from the bright sun overhead.   
  
"I see you're on time for once." she states bluntly with a slight smirk etched on her face, "Have you read over the case files?"   
  
"Aw come on now, Brooks," he pauses, pulling the door open and leaning his figure against it, "When have you ever known me to come unprepared to a case?"   
  
She rolls her eyes, walking through the door and into the large and busy building. The steady click-clacking of her black heels follow her with every step until she reaches the front desk.  
  
"Excuse me, "she smiles at the pretty blonde behind the desk, "My name is Agent Brooks, and this is my partner, Agent Rivers." Michaela pauses, showing the woman her badge. The man behind her, who has taken an obvious interest in the secretary, takes a step closer to the desk.   
  
"We're here about the Boston Strangler case." he interrupts in a slow and sensual voice. Michaela rolls her eyes yet again, releasing a discreet sigh of frustration, "Would you be kind enough to give us the directions to the homicide department?" The blonde smiles as a slight warmness washes over her cheeks.   
  
"Of course." she replies, her eyes now fixed down at the mess of loose papers on her desk. Proceeding to provide the duo with directions, Quinten shoots her yet another sweet smirk.   
  
"Thank you" Michaela quickly adds, turning on her heel to walk towards the elevators.   
  
"Have a nice day!" he smiles at the blonde, "Oh and be careful, we wouldn't want a pretty little thing like you getting caught up in all of this." Finally, he turns towards his partner, who is staring daggers at him. "If looks could kill..." Quinten teases, knowing damn well how to get on Michaela's nerves.   
  
"Do you have to hit on everything that breathes?" Michaela huffs, clearly annoyed. She hastily hits the elevator button, tapping her foot as she waits for the doors to open. Quinten chuckles as the elevator finally arrives.   
  
The pair walk inside the empty elevator and Quinten hits another button to close the doors. Michaela peers up at him once again, taking specific notice of the smirk plastered across his face. Without hesitation, she reaches up, smacking the back of his head with her hand.   
  
"Ow!" he cries out, now rubbing the back of his head with one of his hands, "What the hell was that for?"   
  
"Being an idiot." she smirks back at him as the doors open, "Behave yourself." she scolds, taking a deep breath before taking a few steps out of the elevator.   
  
Unlike the lobby of the building, the homicide department is swimming with the crowded sounds of phones ringing and detectives buried deep in conversation. A man wearing a gray suit immediately approaches them.   
  
"Agent Rivers." Balthazar feigns a smile, stretching out his right hand to the man, "Glad you could make it." 

 "Detective Cross." he returns the fake smile, taking the man's hand and shaking it firmly.   
  
"Actually, it's Lieutenant." the man corrects him as an obvious pride radiates off of him.  
  
Michaela feels out of place as she watches the painfully awkward exchange between the two men. As the men release their hands, she clears her throat. Balthazar meets the attractive brunette's gaze, suddenly feeling like a complete asshole for not acknowledging her sooner.   
  
"And you must be agent Brooks." Balthazar smiles, a genuine smile this time, proceeding to stretch out his hand to her, "I've heard great things about you." Michaela smiles, reaching out to take the man's hand in front of her.   
  
"And I, you, Lieutenant Cross."   
  
Balthazar returns the smile, particularly pleased that she had been paying attention and addressed him by his new title. As the two release each other's hands, Balthazar takes a deep breath.   
  
"Well, I assume that both of you have been briefed on the case?" he asks, primarily addressing Michaela.  
  
"Yes we have." Quinten quickly interrupts, "And we were told that potential new evidence has come to surface?"   
  
"If you'll just follow me.." Balthazar starts, pivoting on his heel and urging the pair to follow his lead, "We found blood samples underneath the nails of the killer's most recent victim, Casey Bates." He reaches for a file on his desk, handing it to Quinten, "It's probable that the victim put up a struggle and scratched her assailant during the attack."  
  
"Casey Bates, 25, married to Eric Bates, no children..." the agent reads, only to be cut off by Balthazar.   
  
"His third victim, found dead in her home by her husband.." he trails off, handing Michaela the file.   
  
"Meghan Novak, 24, married to Castiel Novak..." she pauses, "Wow, what a name that is." with a slight giggle, she continues, "No children...but there's a statement here that the husband was suspicious of his wife cheating on him months before the assault...and her necklace was missing? No signs of forced entry."  
  
"It's almost as if the killer just walked right in." Quentin adds.  
  
"His second victim, Amanda Strobach, 24, also found dead in her home by her husband, Zach Strobach..."  Balthazar takes a breath, directing their attention to the crime scene photos, "According to her husband, they weren't having any marital issues and were trying for a baby. Like Meghan, no signs of forced entry."   
  
"And a chunk of her hair was missing..?" Michaela asks. Balthazar nods. "And the first victim?"   
  
"Extremely similar to the second." the Lieutenant starts, "Isabel Valero, 23, single, lived alone in her apartment where she was found dead the next morning when her friend went to meet up with her for breakfast. Chunk of her hair was missing, no signs of forced entry."   
  
"Lieutenant Cross, is it possible that Isabel Valero wasn't his first victim?" Michaela suggests, "Look at the way she was found, in her bed, strangled, no sign of a break in or even a struggle. I believe that the killer knew the victim well enough to be invited into her home alone with her...is that a hickey on her neck?" she pauses, "Did you swab her collarbones for saliva?"  
  
"Yes." Balthazar responds with a long exaggerated sigh, "But as usual, he must've wiped down any credible evidence that could put him behind bars."

"Alright then, "Michaela pauses, collecting her thoughts, "Looks like we'll have to start from square one. Do the victims have any connections to each other?"   
  
"Aside from all of them being female and early to mid-twenties? No."   
  
"I think we should look farther back into any unsolved strangulation cases than just these few months, with this level of caution and precision, this killer has been at this for years." she states, collecting all of the files and placing them in a neat pile on the Lieutenant's desk, "The need for him to kill is the entire driving force behind his existence right now, and he will kill again...soon. Our job is to stop him before he does."  
  
***  
Dean paces around his apartment, contemplating if he should visit his new friend in the hospital. He knows he can't just isolate himself from any kind of human interaction, that's why killers get caught. The police usually profile a serial killer to be a loner, heavily isolated and detached from any form of personal relationships, whether it be intimate or friendly. The sole reason that Dean has survived this long is because of his mask.   
  
But relationships, while great for masking the inner darkness of his soul, can also lead to danger further down the road. Any sane human being with a conscience-something he clearly lacks-would run screaming for the hills, or more realistically to the nearest police department, and turn him in. Any normal person would view his extra-curricular activities as monstrous and repulsive. Some may even try to fix him; but like a shattered mirror, there is just no mending him.  
  
He is broken, and he can't help it.   
  
He is a beast. A ravenous, abomination damned to the deepest depths of hell. There is no redemption for him.   
  
Even though there might be the slightest chance that Castiel wouldn't turn him in, Dean can't risk that. He would try to fix him.  
  
Dean is aware that Castiel is a problem, but for some reason he doesn't care.  
  
He feels sick. His stomach twists and turns, and for the first time in his entire life, he feels something other than the void of nothingness where his heart is supposed to be. Clamping his mouth shut with his hand, Dean runs to the bathroom. He feels the bile pushing its way up his throat and finally, he throws up into the toilet.   
  
 What is he doing? He murdered Castiel's wife a few nights ago, there's no way he could ever forgive him. Dean peers up at the sun through the bathroom window, his eyes experience a mild burning sensation for a moment before he squints them. Ah, the sun, a giant ball of fire made up with numerous chemicals to provide light and life to the undeserving, and otherwise, steadily decaying planet down below as humans frolic about doing whatever they want like shit-dwelling flies on a deteriorating corpse.   
  
Dean prefers the moon, a giant celestial being composed of various rocks, perfectly shadowed by the darkness of the night, but partially visible due to the reflection of the sun. He has learned to manipulate the lack of illumination, to use it to his advantage. He is a hunter. A predator. He quite enjoys the safety provided by the night, and the ominous glow of the moonlight hitting his face as his hands are tightly wrapped around a deceitful creation of God, slowly draining the life of another and rejuvenating his own. He finds it thrilling, exciting even, to know that to his victims, Dean is like an angel of death, controlling their fate and wielding their destiny.  
  
His fingers twitch, wanting so badly to be around the throat of another. Dean can't take it anymore as he stands, making his way back to the main room in his apartment. He is running out of time fast and the threat of being exposed only feeds his urge to kill.   
  
***  
  
"Good morning Mr Novak." the young nurse smiles down at Castiel, "How did you sleep?"   
  
"Okay." he shrugs, glancing around the room for a moment, "Where's Hanna?"   
  
"Her shift ended a few hours ago and she didn't want to wake you." she pauses, "She told me to tell you that you were found unconscious in the passenger seat of your car, and that you were alone."   
  
"No, he wouldn't leave me." Castiel starts, "He wouldn't leave me to die."  
  
His heart pounds against his chest as his eyes frantically search the room for any evidence of his charming green-eyed stranger. He knows that Dean would never leave him to die, not after the last night that they nearly spent wrestling naked in bed together. Castiel regrets not listening to him, he never should have left Dean's side that night. All of this-all because of his stupid saviour complex.   
  
Meg is dead. She's gone, and there's nothing he can do about it. The reality of the situation is that he felt that by bringing the animal who killed her to justice, he would also bring himself some peace. His destructive motives are what put him here. If he had just laid off from the very beginning, this never would have happened.  
  
But he needs to focus on the here and now. Dean had apparently left him unconscious in his car, but for what reason? He doesn't understand. What motives could Dean possibly have for nearly ripping Castiel's clothes off one minute, and then leaving him to die in the middle of nowhere the next? 

***  
Michaela sits in the briefing room completely alone, isolated from the chaos behind the four glass walls. Crime scene photos are sprawled out on the floor in front of her, a mosaic of lifeless corpses and dead eyes that some may even consider art. Her eyes scan each image, searching for anything that Lieutenant Balthazar and his team could've missed. Patterns of gray dance across each page, morbidly singing out to her in harmony, a significant, but still not so pleasant difference than the usual streaks of violent red that she has grown quite familiar with. The digital bruising surrounding each victim's neck stands out to her. She pays specific attention to Amanda Strobach's hair, gripping the enlarged image in her hands and squinting her eyes, studying each aspect of the photo with careful precision.   
  
"Having any luck?" a voice startles her from across the room. Her attention must have been so focused on the tragic photographs in front of her that she didn't notice the door open.   
  
"I'm sorry," she pauses, "Who are you?"  
  
"Desmond Wolfe, forensics analyst." he smiles down at her, "Excuse me for interrupting, I walked by and saw you in here all alone."   
  
"Don't worry about it." Michaela reassures him, "Special Agent Michaela Brooks." She stands, smoothing her  clothes down before offering him a hand. He takes it, smiling warmly at her as their hands meet for a brief moment of formal introduction.   
  
"You're the one who took down that guy who was kidnapping girls and running a human trafficking ring right?" he tilts his head, "You went undercover and saved those girls."   
  
"Yeah.." Michaela trails off, a slight redness suddenly invading her cheeks. Noticing that her invisible fences have collapsed, she clears her throat as her gaze meets her feet. "I'm just glad that those girls got out of there safely." she continues, pausing for a moment to chew on her bottom lip, "There's nothing I hate more than having to inform a mom or dad that their daughter or son will never make it home again." Desmond senses the sensitive nature of the atmosphere around her and changes the subject, asking her if she found any new possible leads or evidence in the 'Boston Strangler' case.  
  
"I hate it when the press give them a title, as if it's something to be proud of-an accomplishment..." she sighs, shifting her focus back to the mess of scattered colours  surrounding her feet, "This guy is scary good. He knows well enough to wipe his saliva off of his victim's neck and yet..." Michaela pauses, searching for a specific picture, "...there are no signs of sexual assault-no semen or anything aside from the bruising...so why is this guy doing this if it isn't for his own pleasure?"   
  
"Can I give you my personal opinion..?" Desmond asks.   
  
"By all means, please!" she smiles back at him, throwing her hands up in exasperation. He chuckles at her reaction.  
  
"Well, as you have probably noticed, the contusions around each victim's neck are identical except for the latest victim." he kneels down, leaning forward to distinguish the different bruising between the latest victim and the ones prior to her, "The bruising around the neck of the most recent victim is different because he was taken off guard. His first three kills were spotless, and judging by them, he believes he has perfected his craft by now." Michaela nods, clinging on to each word that leaves Desmond's mouth. "He is so narcissistic and bigoted that he has come to view himself as God, and that's why he was taken off guard when his latest victim fought back."   
  
"What are you getting at?"  
  
"I highly doubt that Isobel Valero was the Bos-this guy's first victim. No one's first kill is that clean and sophisticated." he confirms, "Death by asphyxiation in most cases-"  
  
"Right, because he enjoys watching his victim's faces as he squeezes the life out of them" she interrupts him, "He needs control, power, complete domination-"  
  
"Yes, but I do not believe the nature of his crimes to be sexual, I believe them to be vengeful." 

"All this and brains too?" Michaela teases, gesturing to his body. Desmond chuckles before being cut off by a third voice.  
  
"I need to speak to Agent Brooks alone." Quinten orders, practically holding the door open for the analyst.   
  
"It was nice meeting you." Desmond smiles as he stands, Michaela mimicking his actions.   
  
"You too." she smiles, "Don't ever hesitate to come speak with me if you have another theory."   
  
"Will do."   
  
The pair wait patiently for him to exit the room. Closing the glass door behind him, Quinten approaches Michaela, who is now staring daggers back at him.   
  
"What the hell is your problem?" Michaela asks, crossing her arms against her chest. The bluntness of her question surprises Quinten, and since Michaela isn't known for having a short temper, it scares him a little.  
  
"Making new friends I see?" he points out.   
  
"Trying to solve a case." she corrects him, "Which seems to be a hell of a lot more than you're doing."    
  
_"All this and brains too?"_ Quinten imitates the agent, jealously practically seeping from his frame. Michaela huffs out a breath of air before placing her hands on her hips and turning to face away from her partner.   
  
"Funny, you didn't seem to have a problem with making new friends when we were talking to the secretary." she pauses, "What are you even doing in here?"  
  
"Is somebody jealous?" he teases, placing his gentle hands on her arms from behind. Michaela jumps at the sudden contact, shoving his hands off of her body as she turns to face him.  
  
"Jealous? Really?" she snaps in a voice a little louder than a whisper, "Furious, not jealous, furious." Michaela stops to take a deep breath, calming herself down slightly before continuing, "We dated for a few weeks, get over it. Get it through that thick skull of yours that you do not have ownership over me, Quinn."   
  
"Mykie, I didn't mean to-"  
  
"Don't. Just go." she insists, placing a tired hand on her forehead as she shakes her head "Go help Balthazar, or flirt with Anna, I don't care. Just go. I have work to do, you should try it sometime."   
  
Wordlessly, Quinten obeys her request and exits the room as Michaela turns back towards the lifeless photographs, each with their own tragic story to tell.   
  
"Looks like we have something in common." she sighs to herself, situating herself back on the floor. 

***  
Night looms over the hectic, thriving city like a suffocating blanket. Not a single star hangs from the sky tonight, on the darkest of nights, as frigid and black as a waiting tomb. The large full moon above their heads provides unknowing citizens with just enough light to be seen as harmless-friendly, even. The entirety of Boston appear to be attending one giant funeral, and not a soul suspects the concealed wickedness that is yet to come.   
  
Dean has found himself situated at a local raunchy club, where he waits in patience to be approached by his next victim. The flashing lights inside irritate him every time a new stream of bright white violently washes over his eyes, illuminating the neverending darkness of his soul without prior consent. Growing impatient, he taps his fingernails on the bar in front of him while surveying the area.   
  
_Fools._ He licks his lips, his tongue drawing in and out of his mouth mirroring a reptile.  _Filthy whores and sinners, all of them. Polluting a once pure planet, reducing it-_  
  
"Hey." a deep voice interrupts his train of thought, "Can I buy you a drink?" Dean is startled at first, but quickly composes himself.   
  
"Thank you." he smiles back at the man, his eyes dancing with lust. The stranger holds two fingers up to the bartender, turning towards Dean and leaning onto the bar with his elbows. 

"I'm Ricky." he introduces himself as the drinks arrive. Dean ducks his head slightly out of view, muttering a quick thank you but not laying a single finger on the drink.   
  
"Derek." Dean smirks back at him, watching intently as he takes a sip of his beer. "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"   
  
"What do you mean?" Ricky asks, his dark brown eyes squinting together in confusion.   
  
"By your appearance, you seem to be well adjusted, probably married with a beautiful wife." Dean points out, "You're wearing a suit, indicating that you obviously have a well-paid job, and the tattoos on your right forearm appear to be dates-an anniversary? a birthday maybe?" Ricky gulps, his eyes meeting his lap as he shifts his body in obvious discomfort, "I'm prying, I'm sorry." Dean chuckles, quickly thinking of a convincing lie, "I just quit my job on the force and I guess I'm still in the habit of intensely observing people."   
  
"It's alright." Ricky smiles, placing his beer back on the bar, "You're right. I'm here because of my wife, actually."   
  
"Oh?" Dean raises an eyebrow at him, shifting forward in his seat.   
  
"I uh-I love my wife...it's just..." he pauses, "I don't think I'm in love with her anymore."   
  
"Is it because of your sexual preference?" Dean accuses bluntly, "Did you marry her as a cover, to hide who you truly are?" Ricky, clearly affronted, peers around the club at the mess of bodies intertwined with one another.  
  
"Of course not...she knew who she was marrying. I'm bisexual."   
  
"I'm sorry if I offended you" Dean quickly adds, "I just-" he pauses, licking his lips before placing his right hand on the stranger's thigh, "I came here for the same reason as you."   
  
A short breath leaves Ricky's mouth as Dean's hand inches further and further up his thigh. His hand shoots out, grabbing his beer and taking a quick swig before accidentally knocking it over on the bar. A wide smirk etches onto Dean's face, and every fibre of his being is screaming viciously at him. _Get him alone._ As the bartender leans over to clean up the mess, Dean leans closer to him, his hot breath tickling Ricky's ear as he exhales.  _Kill him._  
  
"What do you say we get outta here?" he whispers, nearly pressed up against his ear now. His hand ventures further up his thigh until it finally reaches his midsection and begins sensually stroking his length through the denim fabric, "I'll make you feel good." he continues, placing careful emphasis on the final word. The stranger nods, unable to find the words to speak, "Pay for the drinks and then meet me in the back alley."  
  
Ricky nods frantically as Dean leans back into his seat, taking his hand with him.  He studies the man's face, his eyes are shut and his mouth lingers slightly open. As Dean stands, Ricky finally opens his eyes, nearly tossing the money onto the bar before carefully following Dean's lead.   
  
The two men slowly shuffle through the club, easily blending in with the countless sweaty bodies on the dance floor as they do. The intense smell of alcohol consumes the air, and it isn't hard for two horny guys to appear normal-or a serial killer to lure his unsuspecting prey outside into the back alleyway for the most intense session of erotic asphyxiation he has ever, and will ever, experience. The flashing lights and loud music continue to irritate Dean, and his heartbeat pounds loudly against his temples. 

Dean is the first one to emerge from the building, licking his lips as he is met with the deafening silence and darkness of the night. His headache dulls, but the voices in his head only grow stronger. Never once looking behind him, Dean veers off into the distance, slipping away into the dark alleyway on the other side of the club.   
  
His eyes darken as the corners of his mouth tip upwards. Behind him, he hears fast footsteps approaching. When they stop, he takes a moment before turning to face his next victim. Dean circles Ricky like a predator circling it's prey, studying each and every part of him. Finally, he nearly pounces forward, viciously slamming Ricky back onto the brick wall of the building. Their lips connect as his back hits the wall, both men practically sucking the life out of each other as they do.   
  
Dean is first to bite down on Ricky's bottom lip, erupting a loud moan from the doe-eyed stranger as he does. Dean's hands are pressed firmly on Ricky's groin, roughly rubbing him as his tongue enters his mouth. Finally, their lips separate, and Dean's hands move to unbuckle Ricky's belt. Ricky's hot breath hits Dean's neck as he places hot, wet kisses on the stranger's collarbones.  
  
In one swift motion, Dean yanks both Ricky's pants and boxers around his ankles, allowing the stranger's growing erection to spring free. Dean smiles at him as he kneels, slowly gripping onto his waiting length with his large hands. Peering up at him, Dean wraps his mouth around the man. The heat radiating from Dean is enough to make the stranger shiver in ecstasy as he begins to bob his head up and down. Ricky throws his head backwards, tangling his hands in Dean's dirty blonde hair. Dean continues bobbing his head, quickening his pace as the man's breath grows short and shallow above him, while reaching into his back pocket for two black gloves and putting them on.  
  
_Kill him._  
  
As Ricky twitches, Dean quickly stands back up, pushing the man even closer to the wall as he grips his throat with his hands. Ricky's eyes immediately open as he orgasms, growing wide and afraid at the sight of Dean's facial expression. Similar to his previous victims, Ricky now sees nothing but emptiness looming behind the man's demonic eyes. He tries to scream, but he can't find the air to make a single muffled sound. Instead, he turns to fight back, scratching and clawing at the black material of Dean's gloves. Dean smiles even wider when he is unable to break the fabric, gradually applying more and more pressure around his throat. With each passing breath-or lack of-Ricky's vision becomes a mere blur. His chest is burning, aching in excruciating pain. His lungs yearn for oxygen, but Dean's grip is unyielding.   
  
"You did this to yourself." Dean's smile fades as he pushes his face closer to the stranger's, "You are revolting. Your wife will be better off without filth like you in her bed." he pauses, plastering another wide demonic smile across his face, "The pain you're feeling right now is nothing more than God's punishment for a sinner like you."  
  
Ricky's face drains of colour as he begins to grow pale and weak, and the world around him begins to spin. Dean's voice is a mere echo to him now, ricocheting off of the small space of the alleyway.   He feels as if he were underwater, and his lungs were full of water.   
  
"You're going to burn in hell."   
  
Finally, his arms grow weary, falling limp to his sides. He glances once more at the devil of a man grinning madly before him before his eyes fall shut and the world falls silent.   
  
The all too familiar sensation of adrenaline rushing through Dean's veins washes over him like an electric current as the man grows weak in his grip. 

Dean kneels down, setting Ricky's body in a sitting position against the hard brick wall. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a black rag, before wiping his collarbones and bringing it down to his victim's penis, wiping the skin clean of his saliva. Then, he pulls his pants back over his hips, buckling the belt around his waist and standing back up to admire his work. Dean grins at the obvious tent in Ricky's jeans, feeling quite proud of himself. His head spins in ecstasy as he peers down at his masterpiece, that is until a small glint of silver catches his eye.   
  
Frowning, Dean kneels back down to his level, hastily ripping the wedding ring off of Ricky's finger and shoving it into his pocket. He double checks the body for any sign of his DNA before tossing the man over his shoulder and into the nearby dumpster. Composing himself, he takes a deep breath and shuts the lid. Dean shuts his eyes, letting the full effect of his latest kill settle in. The voices have quieted, and the monster has been feed. With one more look at the seemingly innocent dumpster, he takes a few steps out of the alleyway and is swallowed by the night.


	8. Connecting the Dots

Balthazar makes his way through the deserted hallways of the Boston Police Department with two freshly brewed coffee cups in his hands. It is roughly one in the morning and the station is completely dark except for the small lamp in his office. Rounding the corner, Balthazar notices a few  bright lights in the briefing room that gently illuminate the entire department with a soft yellow glow. He pushes the large glass door open with one hand, flashing Michaela a warm smile before offering her one of the coffee cups. He peers down at the many crime scene photos scattered around her, squinting his eyes at the way in which she has laid them out.   
  
"Any progress?" he asks her, taking a sip of his own coffee.   
  
"Thank you." she smiles up at him, grabbing the warm beverage with her small hands and taking a long sip of her own. The warm liquid feels nice against her dry throat, and considering that she hasn't eaten anything for hours, it is just what she needs to wake her up. Nonetheless, she sighs, shaking her head and focusing her attention back down at the morbid collage in front of her, "This guy is too smart. I can't find a single damn connection to the murders."   
  
"Well, if anyone can solve this case, it's you agent Brooks." he reassures her, taking a seat beside her on the floor. Michaela peers over, smiling at the lieutenant. Everyone seems to be complimenting her today.   
  
"Thank you." she pauses, making eye contact with the man, "You can call me Mykie, there's no need for formalities."   
  
"Mykie it is." he smiles, "You can just call me Balthazar." A moment of comfortable silence passes between the two as Michaela shuffles through Casey Bates' file. "About earlier..." Balthazar pauses, "Quinten and I have...history." Michaela nearly snorts out at this.  
  
"Don't I know it." she smiles, shaking her head. As soon as she realizes how rude and bleak she must have sounded to the Lieutenant, she apologizes, "I'm sorry, I just-I know how...what's the word-arrogant and possessive Quinten can be."   
  
"Oh?" Balthazar asks, turning to look at her, "Do you two have history?"   
  
"I guess you could call it that." Michaela sighs, remembering the heated words she exchanged with the agent earlier, "His ego got in the way of many things and I just couldn't deal with him any longer." Balthazar nods, noticing how defensive the petite brunette had become and deciding to drop the current topic of conversation. In unison, both of their cell phones vibrate, indicating that there most likely was a new crime scene to investigate.     
  
"Crime scene?" Balthazar asks as Michaela checks her phone. She nods, a solemn expression crossing her face as she quickly reads the message.   
  
"Unbelievable." she breathes, shoving her phone back into her pocket and glancing down at the crime scene photos once again, "The asshole had to kill again after a whole twenty four hours. I have an address here, and it isn't that far out. Should I call Quinn?" she asks, her eyes growing wider when she realizes she didn't call Quinten by his full name, "-ten..." she adds, "Quinten. Should I call Quinten? The man sleeps like a rock and probably didn't notice his phone vibrating." Balthazar realizes Michaela's quick save, but chooses not to comment on it.   
  
"Honestly, " he smiles as he stands, holding his hand out for Michaela. She takes it, pulling herself to her feet, "I think you manage just fine on your own. But, since it is his job, I say go for it. If none of us get to sleep, then why the hell should he?" Michaela smiles, appreciating Balthazar's added humor to the extremely sensitive topic. "I can give you a ride to the crime scene if you want?" he quickly offers, holding the door open for the brunette. 

"That would be lovely, thank you." she replies, pulling out her phone, "Just give me a second to call Quinten and I'll meet you in your office?" Balthazar nods, leaving Michaela some privacy. She takes a deep breath, finding Quinten's name in her contact list and pressing the call button. After three rings, he answers.   
  
"Mykie?" he asks, obviously groggy from being woken up.   
  
"Check your texts, and get your ass down to the crime scene." she states, hanging up the phone before he has a chance to respond. Shoving her phone back in her pocket, she brings her hands up to run her fingers through her hair, taking a moment to remind herself that Quinten is poison. Although he may be an outstanding agent, a partner is all he can and will ever be to her; nothing more than a fellow employee, fighting crime to keep the streets safe from criminals and thieves. She shakes her head, taking a few steps towards Balthazar's office.   
  
  
***  
  
"What are you doing up?" Hannah lectures Castiel, who is wide awake and buried deep within the pages of a murder-mystery novel at one in the morning. The man holds a finger up to her as he finishes reading the page he is on before gently closing the book and setting it down next to him.   
  
"I'm not tired." he admits with a sigh, "My mind has been racing all day and it just won't stop." Hannah begins to clear off the meal tray above his bed as he talks.   
  
"You need to rest." Hannah insists, dumping the styrofoam empty water cup in the garbage and replacing it with a new one, "I'm not really supposed to tell you this until morning, but since the crash was minor, and you only sustained a few minor injuries, the doctor told me that you could be released as early as tomorrow afternoon, but that's only if you relax." she pauses, moving the white tray out of the way as she approaches his side, "So I need you to do me a favour, " Castiel glances up at her, urging for her to continue, "Whatever you've been thinking about, forget about it, at least for now. Sleep is the best thing you can do for yourself right now, and if you want to be back in your own bed by tomorrow night, that's what you'll need to do."   
  
"I don't think I can sleep soundly in my own bed ever again after what happened to my wife..." he trails off, lying back against the somewhat comfortable hospital mattress, "I'm going to have to sell the house, find a new place to stay...I just-I can't believe that another human being has the ability to do such horrible things." Hanna can't help but feel empathetic towards such a gentle, kind-hearted man, who only wants the best for everyone around him. The great deal of undeserving loss and tragedy that he has been through within these past few days almost depresses her, and she can understand his sudden feeling of abandonment and hopelessness. Hanna has always considered herself a glass half full kind of girl, and as a nurse she had especially hoped to share her liveliness with recovering patients.   
  
But Castiel was much different in comparison to any average Joe who had been rushed into the emergency room because of a few broken bones, because he was broken on the inside. Unlike those who were taken in, given a prescription for medicine with a name that was too difficult to pronounce, and promised a speedy recovery, Castiel will never fully mend. The person that he once knew so well was gone forever, and there was nothing she, or anyone else but himself could do to change that. He was a mere empty shell of the man he used to be, driven but nothing but his unyielding desire for revenge. Thus, Hanna is at loss for words, not quite sure how to respond to such a pessimistic statement. All she can do is insist that he get the proper rest he needs, and reassure him that the police will catch the twisted bastard who took his wife.   
  
***  
Quinten's mind is racing as he pulls up to the bar, clearly overwhelmed by the chaotic mess of contrasting emotions he feels towards a certain brunette. There was once a time when the mere sight of her delicate, porcelain face sent his heart into a frenzy of love and passion. But now, he feels nothing. Completely empty, like a blank canvas just waiting to feel the soft touch of a paint brush's gentle stroke. The days grow incredibly long and tiring, and all he wants to do is take her in his loving arms and never let her go. Yet, the sight of her also makes him sick to his stomach.  
  
Of course he knows better than to combine work and personal life, so as usual he ignores his partner, his eyes meeting the dead eyes in front of him instead of Michaela's. What has his life come to?   
  
"Boston Strangler?" he sighs, knowing full well how his partner feels about giving titles to killers. The young brunette is crouched over, examining the bruising around John Doe's neck.   
  
"His lips are swollen." she points out, squinting her eyes, "And there's faint traces of blood. Desmond, can you come over here?" she summons the young forensic over to the corpse with her hand. "Take a few photos of the victim's face, it looks like he and someone else snuck away from the bar to have a little rough, alleyway fun." Desmond obeys, crouching down beside the attractive detective to get a closer look at the lifeless body slumped against a dumpster. Michaela tilts her head, suddenly unsure.   
  
"I know that look." Quinten pauses, "What is it?  What's wrong?" Michaela stills, taken off guard by Quinn's deep and penetrating voice.   
  
"Balthazar," Mykie pauses, her eyes never leaving the gruesome scene in front of her, "Who called this in?"   
  
"The bartender, why?"   
  
"Where is she? I need to speak to her." she shakes her head, standing up to face the lieutenant. Her long brown hair drapes over her back like a blanket, shielding her from the cool night air. 

"She's inside being questioned by Anna." Michaela nods, biting her lip for a moment, lost in her thoughts, "I can take you to her if you want?" Without answering, she takes a few steps closer to the open dumpster, carefully peering inside.   
  
"There's definitely something down there." she mutters, struggling to get a closer look. Just as before, she motions for Desmond over to the dumpster, this time ordering him to take a few photos of the inside. "May I?" she asks before taking the camera and zooming in on the image. At the very bottom of the empty dumpster, there are a few red marks, which Michaela can only assume to be blood. Taking a deep breath, she peers behind the corpse, spotting a specific scrape on the back of his skull. "Take me to her. Now." she orders, her voice raising in a frustration. Quinten raises an eyebrow as her eyes meet his for a brief moment before she disappears behind Balthazar.   
  
It isn't long before he hears Michaela's yelling erupt from the quiet building. He knows that tone anywhere. 

***  
  
Michaela storms into the back room of the bar, ignoring both Balthazar and Anna's protests.   
  
"You found the body right?" she asks the attractive blonde whose breasts are all but hanging out of her low cut shirt. The blonde's eyes widen, her body stiffening at Michaela's harsh tone. "Did you, or did you not find the body?"   
  
"Y-yes." she stutters, afraid that the police have somehow made the conclusion that she was the Boston Strangler, "But I didn't do it. I have never killed anyone I swea-"   
  
"I know you didn't kill anyone." Michaela forces a smile, taking a few moments to steady herself, "Why don't you run me through what happened?" The bartender nods, licking her lips as her eyes nervously meet her hands, which are fidgety and clasped together in her lap.  
  
"My boss told me to take out the trash, as I do every other night. You can even check with him I-"   
  
"I believe you. Continue." she forces, crossing her arms against her chest.   
  
"I did just that. I took out the trash, and when I got there, there was a freaking dead body in-" the blonde quickly corrects herself, licking her lips as she does, "-just lying against the dumpster!"   
  
"Bullshit." Michaela laughs, "Why don't you just tell the truth, blondie?"   
  
"I am I swear!" she urges.   
  
"So you found him lying against the dumpster? Are you positive?" she tests, uncrossing her arms to lean onto the table in front of the blonde woman.   
  
"Yes!" she yells, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes.   
  
"Michaela-" Balthazar warns.   
  
"It's my job to look at someone and know when they're lying." Michaela starts, raising her voice, "So I am going to ask you one last time; Where did you find the body?"   
  
"In the alley! Leaning against the dumpster!"  
  
Quinten suddenly barges into the room, alarmed by Michaela's posture and volume. He opens his mouth to say something when Michaela cuts him off.   
  
"Do you take me for a fucking fool?" she huffs, "From the moment I walked in here, the first thing that I noticed was your smudged lipstick, and the slight scrapes on the backs on your arms. The dumpster outside is completely empty, except for slight traces of the victim's blood. So my guess is you snuck off to the alleyway to have some fun with a boyfriend, a stranger, or quite possibly your boss. But when you got there, you knew something was wrong. Maybe the dumpster lid was open? Maybe you saw someone remove the body from the dumpster? Hell, maybe you're just into some really weird shit. Either way, you altered the crime scene."   
  
The woman was in tears by now, completely hysterical.   
  
"Michaela..." Balthazar trails off, "Maybe you should wait outside."   
  
"Maybe this little slut should cut the crap and just admit that she and her partner altered the crime scene of a fucking serial killer!" she screams at the blonde. Quinten wonders if he should step in. He has never seen Michaela so vicious in all of the years he has known her.   
  
"Agent Brooks." Balthazar interrupts, "NOW." Quinten and Michaela are both aware that being the higher ranking agents that they are, Balthazar has absolutely no authority over her. However, finally realizing that she has overstepped her boundaries, Michaela shakes her head, mumbling a few profanities as she turns on her heel and storms out of the room.

Quinten waits a few minutes before he follows her, searching the bar until he is able to hear soft sobbing erupting from the ladies room. He leans against the doorframe for a moment, wondering if he should just walk in. Knowing full well that Michaela would only ignore him if he were to knock, he pushes the door open.   
  
He is met with the sight of Michaela sitting against the wall with her head in her hands. She lifts her head as he approaches her.   
  
"Don't you have a damsel in distress to go comfort?" she sneers at him, her puffy eyes meeting his for the first time that night.   
  
"I would say that's what I'm trying to do right now, but you're no damsel in distress." he offers.   
  
"Right. I'm your psycho bitch of an ex who probably just lost her career." she smiles bitterly, tearing her eyes from his. Quinten takes a few steps closer to her, sliding down the wall to sit beside her. He offers his hand out, gently rubbing her back in a comforting manner. "Don't touch me." she snaps at him, inching her body away from his hand.   
  


He opens his mouth to reply, short and angry as usual, before he notices the pain etched across her face. Frustration isn't solved with more violence.  _There's no point in me sitting here and wasting my time if you're going to be like this. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped._ There's no point in yelling at her and having history repeat itself once again. Instead, he goes with a softer approach, sitting in silence with her for a few moments before finally replying.  
  
"Do you remember that one time when we were on a case and you were specifically told to wait for backup before heading into the suspect's home alone?" he asks, not expecting a response, "The man was killing people who used to bully him in high school, and because you refused an order, you damn well saved her life. Even when the backup arrived, you managed to talk down the suspect, and because of that both he, and the victim survived that day."   
  
"That was the first case we worked together." Michaela smiles reluctantly, her voice soft and quiet.    
  
"I know." Quinten smiles back, "Ever since that day, I have never doubted you for a second." He reaches over, gently wiping a fallen tear off her cheek with his thumb. Surprisingly, she doesn't flinch or object this time.   
  
"I'm sorry for yelling at you." she sighs, "I'm just upset with myself, but that's no excuse for treating you like shit."   
  
"Listen to me," he urges her, their eyes meeting for a second time that night, "Never doubt yourself. You are incredible at what you do. You were right, the crime scene has been tampered with, and I know there's nothing you want more than to catch the psycho behind these killings. You will not lose your job over this, I will make sure of it."  
  
"You don't have to protect me anymore." she mumbles, her voice a mere whisper now.   
  
"I want to." he smiles, "You are the best Agent out there, and Velosso would be an idiot to get rid of you." Quinten stands, offering both of his hands out to Mykie. She peers up at him, pleasantly surprised by his company. Maybe he isn't so bad after all. Accepting the kind gesture, Michaela reaches up and takes his hands, shifting her weight as he pulls her to her feet.   
  
"Thanks, Quinn." she smiles as their hands unclasp, feeling comfortable in his presence for the first time in a long while. "I guess I should go apologize."   
  
"Why?" Quinn chuckles, "That sleazy bartender deserved everything you said to her." Michaela laughs, gathering herself and following her partner out of the bathroom. "Oh I almost forgot to tell you, Desmond found a ring indent on the victim's finger. He was married, and I think the killer took the ring." Michaela stops dead in her tracks, silently re-evaluating the connection between each victim. 

"That means four of the known victims were married, and three were having martial problems. What if this guy goes after the unfaithful, and gender is meaningless to him?"

  
"It's rare, but entirely possible." Quinn nods.   
  
"Let's gather the team and meet back at the station," she pauses, "I think I found a connection."  

***  
   
The sun is just above the horizon as Castiel formally checks out of the hospital. His lack of vehicle and existing family creates an entirely new challenge. Luckily, Hannah has grown quite attached to the mostly soft-spoken patient. She offers him a ride home, although Castiel struggles to remember where exactly home may be. His cell phone was completely out of the question considering it had mysteriously gone missing directly following the crash, and it's not like any of his remaining relatives would be of any assistance with the distance between them. The only address that traipses around his crippled memory is the one that belongs to his ominous green-eyed, handsome devil of a stranger who welcomed him into his home and then dumped him off at the hospital, leaving him with absolutely no answers to any of the millions of grueling questions that linger within his skull.   
  
Sometimes Castiel feels insane. Delusional with no one to turn to, or perhaps only damaged from the crash. The texan's phantom touch on his delicate skin lingers on and on, feeling too real to feign. Curious, Castiel recites the foreign address out loud to his nurse.  
  
"It appears that we are living in the same building." the blonde chuckles, turning the car keys as her engine roars to life. The pair sit in silence, neither one of them uttering a single word as her electric blue Honda Civic bounces along the uneven cobblestone streets of Boston. 

Castiel immediately recognizes the apartment building. The gorgeous, stone washed, maroon bricks capture his attention as he casts his gaze out the window. Suddenly, the pair are on their feet and headed towards the two digit room number.  
  
"Looks like we're neighbours for the time being." Hannah smiles at the man slung over her shoulder in an effort to steady himself. His knuckles gently rap against the door, patiently waiting for the green-eyed stranger lurking on the other side to acknowledge the disruption.   
  
Much to his dismay, a few moments pass before the door slowly opens to reveal a frighteningly familiar face.   
  
"Cas?" Dean squints his eyes, examining the broken image of a man in front of him. A jolt of unexpected electricity courses through his veins and his breathing slows.   
  
"Hello Dean." Cas all but smirks angrily, "Thank you for your hospitality, Hannah. I can take it from here." He reassures the attractive blonde, Dean noticing her presence for the first time that night. The stranger watches intensely as the foreign woman enters a door parallel to his before disappearing behind the wooden frame. Dean is stunned by Castiel's courage and strength as he marches into the apartment building. "You know," he starts, "I woke up in a hospital bed a few nights ago, completely alone and confused beyond belief." Dean closes the door and turns to face the man, clinging on to every word that leaves his mouth. "I was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia and told that I was in an accident." he pauses, finding the right words to say, "I remembered you, Dean. What we di-almost did together. The rest is a blur to me. But if there's one thing I know for sure, It's that you were in the car with me. You left me to die."   
  
 _Shut up you fucking idiot._ Dean rolls his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.   
  
"Is this funny to you?" Castiel raises his voice, "You left me to fucking die in that car!"  
  
 _I know._

"Are you hearing me? I could have died because of you!"   
  
 _I'm well aware._  
  
"I thought I was losing my mind!"

 _Just kill him now and put us out of our misery._ Dean crosses his arms across his chest and exhales deeply. He relaxes his tensed muscles and closes his eyes for a moment.

"Do you know what's it like to be treated like you're insane?" Castiel sneers, taking a few steps closer to the man, "The constant voices battling to be heard, the memories refusing to leave you alone-"  
  
 _Do I ever!_  
  
"What do you want from me?" Dean counters, cutting the blue-eyed man off.   
  
"What do I want from you?" Castiel echoes humorously, "An explanation maybe? A reason why you nearly fucked me in your own apartment, only to leave me for dead hours later!" His face lingers dangerously close to Dean's as he screams at him.   
  
 _Kill him. Shut his whiny mouth for good._  Dean grinds his teeth, unable to process another unwanted human being in his personal space. _Kill him._  He swallows hard, staring daggers into Castiel's fiery blue eyes.  _Kill him._ The demonic voices echo over and over again in low growls, sending Dean into a sudden frenzy as his hands grip Castiel by the neck, slamming his back against the nearest wall. A picture frame shatters as his head makes contact with the hard surface, shards of glass decorating the floor beneath their feet.   
  
"You need to get out of here." Dean warns him as Castiel gasps for air, "You need to leave." Dean applies more force to the blue-eyed man's jugular as he leans closer to his face, practically growling, "Now." As Dean releases the grip on Castiel's neck, the man collapses to the floor, cutting the palm of his hand on a shard of glass. Wordlessly, Dean's eyes widen at the sight before him. What has he done? "Cas..." he croaks, reaching down to help the wounded man.   
  
"Stop." Castiel whispers, his eyes clearly wet, "Don't touch me."   
  
"I don't know what came over me." Dean whispers, his breath growing thick and heavy as he takes a few steps away from him, his back coming in contact with the wall as he does so. "Cas, you've gotta believe me I-" Castiel ignores him, finally managing to make his way back onto his feet somehow.

"I don't ever want to see your face again." he growls through his teeth, "You're a monster, Dean Winchester." Taking one final look at Dean before tugging open the apartment door, Castiel hobbles out of sight, a dispersed trail of his blood following close behind him.   
  
***  
A collection of uniforms flood the Boston Police Department, Michaela and Quinten taking the center stage. Still shaken up from Michaela's outburst at the crime scene, Balthazar remains in the dark about the pair's connection.   
  
"A man is out there terrorizing the streets of Boston, and so far we have been of no help." Michaela bluntly states to the entire room.   
  
"All we have done is given him a name, publicity-fame, if you will." Quinten adds, "But we believe that this isn't what is driving his urge to kill."   
  
"We believe that he is driven by the primal need to kill." Michaela starts, "This will explain his method of strangulation, which provides him with far more intimacy than shooting, or even stabbing his victim to death."   
  
"This man has a God Complex. He believes that he is ridding the world of evil-or sinners." Quinten adds, using his hands to aid in his presentation, "He enjoys watching the life drain from his victim's eyes, and feels no remorse."   
  
"Then he takes time to clean up after himself, a gesture only capable of someone extremely calm and calculated." 

"So, this man is intelligent?" Balthazar asks, "We already knew that. It doesn't exactly help our case."   
  
"Not only intelligent, " Michaela pauses, "But extremely mentally disturbed."   
  
"His crimes have targeted both men and women in their early to mid twenties, all married or in serious relationships. The fact that he took the wedding band off of his last victim suggests that his victim pool consists of those unfaithful to their significant other."   
  
"The sheer intimacy and power that comes with  wrapping your hands around someone's throat and watching as you kill them suggests that our killer is bisexual, and using his victims as surrogates for someone close to him that probably betrayed him in one form or another. A mother or father, a girlfriend or boyfriend who cheated on him."   
  
"We believe that our killer is a white male in his mid to late twenties with a severe mental illness. He has probably gone by multiple names, and never stayed in one place for too long." 

"The citizens of Boston rely on us to keep them safe, " Michaela starts, "But telling the public what we know will only drive him farther away. We need to keep this a secret, and wait another day for the blood analysis. Until then, all we can do is pray that the killer is satiated enough to stay off of the streets for the night."

Instantly, the room collapses into chatter. Michaela rubs her temples, closing her eyes for a brief moment. Quinten takes notice to her behaviour, and immediately excuses them from the room.   
  
"What's wrong." he asks once they are alone.   
  
"Nothing." she insists, "It's just a headache. I'm fine."   
  
"You should rest. You said it yourself, there's nothing we can do right now-"  
  
"I can-"   
  
"You should go home and relax. The blood analysis won't be back for another day anyways. You need sleep." he urges her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders, "I can drive you, you're in no condition to be on the road."   
  
"Thank you, Quinn." she smiles, feeling far to exhausted to argue. Her eyelids growing heavier and heavier by the minute. Quinten places his arm around his shoulders and she leans into his frame as they disappear down the empty corridor of the station.

***

Dean remains in the same position for hours, replaying the daunting scene over and over again in his head. His skin crawls with a sense of self-loathing so powerful, he might as well end his existence once and for all. He sits, his hands sealed around his legs as he clasps them into his chest, rocking back and forth in a frighteningly similar notion of a human possessed by a blasphemous spirit who had once inhabited the darkest corners of hell. The voices in his head are silent-madly silent-and the man is in distress.   
  
Life outside the four walls of his apartment has settled down for the day, and Dean finally realizes how long he has been sitting there with his thoughts as his only company. His eyes, unblinking, stare straight ahead at a small blood stain left on the wall by his acquaintance. 

The darkness soon engulfs him, and he enjoys the simple ambiance. He feels right at home.   
  
Maybe Castiel is right and he is a monster.  _A vile abomination of society. A freak of nature used to scare young children into behaving themselves. A cursed soul damned for the rest of eternity. A plague to all of humankind. A repulsive, atrocious beast who feeds on the pain and suffering of others, and returns home to a soft bed  and an abundance of food. The devil in mortal form._ Dean swallows hard, his entire body beginning to tremble and convulse uncontrollably. Remorse was foreign, borderline impossible, for Dean, and the entire prospect terrified him. He has never pitied anyone before in his life, never repented his sins, or even held a guilty conscience. 

 _Pull yourself together, coward._ Dean stills, his breath suddenly growing heavy and nearly choking him.  _Look at you, sitting on the floor in a puddle of your own tears singing woe is me to absolutely no one at all. You disgust me. What the hell have you become._

"I'm sorry!" he screams out, tilting his head to the sky. 

 _You are weak. How do you even have the audacity to call yourself a man? Men don't lie down on the floor and weep up to the heavens. Look at me! I'm Dean Winchester, tough as nails...until my emotions cloud my judgement and my boyfriend says he doesn't love me anymore!  Boo hoo. Look at the piece of crap you have reduced yourself to. Hell, you're no better than the shit dwelling flies and blood sucking leeches polluting the planet. Remember them? The one's you were put on this earth to remove?_  
  
"Shut up." Dean commands, gritting his teeth as his eyes darken. His finger nails dig into the bare skin on his legs, dragging slowly across his calves. His hands shake as his nails dig deeper, breaking the skin as deep crimson fluid begins oozing out of the wounds. Two sets of scratch marks, each perfectly equal in size, decorate his lower legs. Then, as if something has snapped inside of his head, Dean practically jumps up to his feet, thrusting a nearby lamp across the other side of his apartment. 

_Pull yourself together and go get some fresh blood on your hands, it's the only thing you're actually good at._

 

The scarlet liquid continues slowly exuding itself down each side of the man's legs, finding refuge on the hardwood floor below. Dean shakes his head viciously, bringing the palms of his hands up to his forehead and bashing his skull repeatedly for a few moments. Then, his world stops. He takes a few deep breaths in and out, steadying himself. His spine straightens as he takes a few even paced steps to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.   
  
Wordlessly, he peels off his clothes from the night before, showing no concern when his boxers slide down his blood drenched legs. He catches a glimpse of his figure in the mirror, and leans over the sink as bile rests at the base of his throat. His gaze meets the floor beneath him, which is now too coated with an all too familiar shade of deep red. Finally, Dean shuffles into the shower.

 

He exhales as the warm stream of water graces his tense body. The foul liquid adorning his legs meets the floor and disappears quickly down the drain. Dean reaches out, grabbing a knob with his large, rough hand and viciously jerking it counter-clockwise. He winces as the new temperature encloses over him. It is scolding, and the man can practically see the steam radiating off of his skin. The tiny water droplets sear his skin like a raging fire, but Dean doesn't care. In fact, he enjoys the pain. After all, it is the only time he can actually feel something. Steam forms around him on the glass, and the killer closes his eyes. Gruesome, and incredibly vivid, memories cloud his mind.   
  


His hands are around his first victim's throat, tightening with each passing moment. Her eyes stare back into his pleading for freedom, but the vacancy in his own remain unaffiliated. A familiar feeling manifests itself in Dean's lower abdomen, and he is ready to hunt. He bites his lower lip, slowly...sensually, and releases and low breathy moan. 

When the man opens his eyes, his large hands dart to a nearby bottle of shampoo. He carefully squeezes it into the palm of his rough hand before distributing it evenly throughout his short dirty blonde locks. Then, the water spews over his body, quickly washing away the soapy bubbles covering his head. Now Dean reaches for another container, reaching out to grab and untwist the lid. He sticks out two of his fingers and dips them into the white substance. When the white powder coats his index and middle fingers, he withdraws himself from the container, placing it aside and bending down. Now Dean grits his teeth, squinting his eyes as his fingers meet the fresh wound on his right leg. He presses onto the exposed flesh, grinding the substance deep into the gash. A new fire invades his body, nearly causing him to cry out at the familiar, but nonetheless excruciating pain. Dean moves to his left leg, dipping his fingers deep into the salt for a second time before scrubbing the wound clean. Finally, he presses on the knob, shutting the water off completely and leaving his body in a comfortable numbness.  
  
Dean wraps a towel around his waist and views his reflection in the mirror for a second time that night. Averting his gaze, the killer quickly dries his body and wanders into his bedroom. Dean selects his attire for the night, which consists of a plain black t-shirt and green button down shirt, along with a pair of slightly stone washed jeans. Reaching up, he rests his fingers in his damp locks, styling it accordingly. A sly smirk fixes itself on his face, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards at the slightest angle.   
  
"Perfect." he coos out loud to himself.   
  
Now he brings the palms of his hands up to cover his magnificent green eyes. Sliding them slowly down each of his flawless facial features, Dean squints his eyes harshly. When he opens them again, a small pool of clear liquid rests at the corners of each eye, threatening to fall one by one, crashing onto the hardwood floor.   
  
Taking one final glass at his reflection, the man stalks off into the night. This time, he decides to stay closer to home. Footstep by footstep, he reaches a door identical to his own and knocks. Just as suspected a beautiful blonde answers the door. She tilts her head in confusion, her eyes immediately meeting his glossy ones.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asks, a hand resting on the wood of the door frame.   
  
"I'm sorry..." he starts, "I shouldn't even be over here right now. We've only met once...I know...I'm aware of that. I just feel like I shouldn't be alone right now..." A small, perfectly formed tear rolls down his cheek as he speaks. Hannah, spending her entire life with the sole purpose of helping people, cannot stand to see a man in tears.   
  
"What happened?" she asks, her nurse counterpart beginning to take hold of her. 

"I don't deserve to live." he cries out, "I'm-I was the reason Castiel nearly lost his life." The blonde listens, her eyes never once leaving his. "I was afraid and I-I just left him there to die! It should have been me."   
  
"Don't say that." she insists, "Why don't you come inside. It's awfully cold out there, and you'd be much more comfortable."   
  
"I don't deserve comfort." he pauses, his eyes meeting the floor, "All I deserve is pain. Suffering."   
  
"Come inside." she repeats, standing aside and allowing him space to enter her apartment, "I insist." Dean remains silent, only giving the woman a slight nod before crossing her door frame and examining the apartment. The furniture reminds him of a carefully laid out display in one of those home decor magazines. It is illuminated only by a small reading lamp in the corner of the room. "Take a seat, I'll whip up some hot chocolate." Dean obeys, taking a seat on the delicate cream couch in the centre of the room.  
  
The woman returns a few minutes later with a fresh cup of hot cocoa, just as promised. She hands it to him before taking a seat beside the man on the couch. 

"Thank you." he barely smiles, "No one has ever taken care of me like this before."   
  
"It's no trouble at all." she smiles, her hand resting on her knee, "As for the crash, you were afraid-completely terrified, and rightly so. Not a single human being on this earth has the ability to make rational decisions in life-threatening situations." Dean remains silent, his eyes absentmindedly flickering down to her pink lips every so often, "And as for what you uh-" she pauses, licking her lips as she notices Dean's gaze, transfixed on her mouth. "-You do not deserve pain. You deserve love. No one on this earth deserves to die at their own hands-or at the hands of another-" She stills as Dean's hand rests on top of her own.   
  
"No one could ever love me." he whispers, another tear rushing down his face as his eyes never once leave her own. Something about the nurse's eyes remind him of Castiel's, and the resting fire burning deep inside of him suddenly ignites once again as he leans over, tenderly taking her face in his warm hand and pressing their lips together. To her surprise, she reciprocates immediately, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his slightly damp head of hair.   
  
A mere moment later, the kiss intensifies. It has been awhile since Hannah has felt the affection of another man, and something about Dean hypnotized her. It isn't long until the man's tongue finds itself on her lower lip, begging for entrance. When she grants it, their tongues dance together and Dean finds himself hovering over the woman. 

He remembers hovering over his fiance just as he is now. Kissing her with such intensity that his lips were sore afterwards. Soon, his lips are at her neck, gently sucking at the tender skin. Now he recalls wrapping his hands around the love of his life's throat, squeezing as she moaned, watching carefully as her eyes widened, and the air from her lungs could no longer reach her brain. He moans into her collarbone, remembering the sweet release that came with ending her life.

 Her hands are pushing at his shoulders, ridding the green fabric from his skin. Dean's fingers meet the hem of the delicate nightgown she is wearing. He pulls away for a moment to bring the gown up over her head, tossing it to the floor as if it offends him. She takes the opportunity to roughly rid his own body of the black t-shirt he is wearing. Their lips meet for a second time in a fiery passion as her fingers toy with his belt buckle, forcing his jeans and boxers down his legs. He wastes no time, unhooking the lacy bra she is wearing from her body and violently tossing it aside, doing the same with her matching set of underwear.

  
"Wait." she breathes, breaking away from the kiss. Dean pulls away, staring down at her in confusion. He grows hungrier and hungrier with every passing second as he waits for her to continue. However, if she does not feel comfortable he will control himself. He may be a complete psychopath, obsessed with the feeling that comes along with watching the life drain from his victim's eyes, but if it's one thing he's not, it's a rapist. In fact, Dean finds rapists completely repulsive and unsanitary, beastly men worse than Satan himself. At least he has the decency to end his victim's torment. Plus, it's a dead giveaway to  "Do you have a condom?" she asks in complete innocence. Dean nearly laughs.   
  
"I uh-" he begins, "No-I wasn't exactly anticipating..."   
  
"That's alright." she giggles, a slight shade of pink invading her cheeks, "Wait right here, I have some in my bedroom."   
  
Within a moment, Hannah returns, her naked body nearly glowing as she hops back down onto the couch. He hovers over her as she opens the small square packet and rolls it over his length. Dean's fingers immediately meet her center, rubbing circles as he watches her twist and moan. She throws her head back as his finger enters her, moaning in completely ecstasy. As he withdraws, his fingers are violently replaced by his length as he enters her. His thrusts are fast and sloppy as he pins her arms down into the cream fabric of the soft couch. She closes her eyes, her breath growing fast and shallow with each thrust. He stares down at her, his gaze transfixed on the delicate skin of her throat. Soon, his hands find themselves wrapped around her neck, squeezing harshly, repeating history once again.   
  
"Oh my god!" A voice screams from across the room. Dean removes his hands, leaning to shield Hannah's body from the third party. His mouth nearly drops open as he peers over at the familiar woman. 

 

 

 


	9. Home Again

"Shit Mykie!" Hannah pants, her eyes wide as she clutches Dean closer to her very naked and slightly flushed body, "I thought you were working late tonight!"  Dean steadies himself, playing off his uneasiness as a desperate attempt to catch his breath. He manages to shield the hand harbouring the scratch marks from the nosy detective.   
  
"Jesus Hannah! Really, the couch?" she scoffs, a hand covering her eyes, "Quinten drove me home to get some sleep, I've been up all night because of this damn case." She takes a moment, unsure of what to say or do in a situation like this. "I'm going to go to my room. You two...finish up...and we will talk when you aren't physically joined with our neighbour." Michaela pauses to shake her head in disgust, and Dean studies her silky long brown hair swaying beside her as she does."Just remember, these walls are thin!" Without another word, she disappears down a hallway.   
  
As the sound of a door shutting echoes softly throughout the impressively clean apartment building, Hannah's body shakes beneath him. She is hysterical.   
  
"Oh my god." she laughs, "I'm sorry, I've just never been in this predicament before!" Dean feigns a smile, knowing that he has to get out of the blonde's apartment as soon as possible. There is no way in hell that he can follow through with his plan to murder her with a detective relaxing in the next room. She had seen him, she can identify him. In any situation Dean would've murdered the woman beneath him, and then made his way over to the petite brunette and done the same. Witnesses are something that the man cannot afford. One eye witness is enough to send him straight to the electric chair and he damn well knows it.   
  
"I uh..." Dean shifts awkwardly, creating distance between the two and pulling out of the woman, "I think the mood was ruined." Hannah peers up at the gorgeous, adonis equivalent man, a small pout crossing her face.   
  
"Are you sure?" she asks, sitting up on her elbows, "Michaela won't bother us, she's so focused on her work that she barely even sleeps." One of her hands reaches up to trail down his elbow with a feather-light touch. Dean slightly quivers as her fingertips evoke a tingly sensation.

  
 _That's exactly what I'm afraid of._ Dean sighs to himself, removing his weight from the nurse's perfect body and reaching to tug his boxers up his legs, his pants and shirt follow until he is fully clothed.   
  
"Maybe another time." he assures her, his lips tilting forward into a soft smile as he does so. Leaning in, he kisses her softly on the mouth, "You know where to find me." With a flirtatious wink, he disappears into the night. 

***  
  
After gathering her clothes and pulling herself together, Hannah brings a loose fist up to knock twice on her roommate's door. Michaela, who is in the middle of flipping through a large pile of extremely familiar police reports, beckons her in. She studies the contusions surrounding the fourth victim's neck with special admiration. As her door swings open and shut, she closes the file and peers up at her friend.

"Well hello there." she smirks with an especially knowing tone, "Got any other naked guys hiding in the lounge - or maybe under your bed?" The blonde's cheeks flush a deep shade of pink as a hand comes up to hide her wide smile.   
  
"Sorry Mykie." she closes her eyes briefly in a failed attempt to hide her immense embarrassment, "I just-" 

"Couldn't wait until you got to your bed? Had to take him right then and there?" she teases. Hannah is aware of her roommate's feigned frustration, but silently wishes to crawl in a corner out of shame. "Relax, I'm kidding!" Michaela laughs, standing from her bed and walking over to the blonde.  "So, how was he?" 

"Oh God." Hannah laughs, "Mykie I-"   
  
"Come on girl, don't spare any details." the brunette winks. 

"It all happened so fast!"  
  
"Oh I bet it did, from what I saw anyways..."

"Shut up!" Hannah cries, throwing her hands playfully on her friend's shoulder, "How can you blame me, did you see how gorgeous that man was?"   
  
"Well, his ass was pretty nice from what I saw of it."   
  
"You're impossible!"   
  
"You love me." 

"He came over here to talk." Hannah confirms. Michaela motions for her to continue with a slight nod of her head, "He was in a dark place and knew one of my patients. Hell, he was borderline suicidal when he showed up at my doorstep. I insisted he come inside and told him to have a seat while I whipped up some hot cocoa. I guess he was just taken aback by the fact that someone was caring for him and he made a move on me."   
  
"Sounds like something out of a movie." Michaela contemplates for a moment. "Was he rough in bed?" Hannah stares back at her, not exactly sure how to answer the question. "Well?"   
  
"Well, I mean...I guess?" Hannah questions.   
  
"What did he do?" Michaela questions.   
  
"Uh Mykie...there are some personal boundaries that I would rather keep private..." 

"What about erotic asphyxiation?"   
  
"Erotic asphyxi-what?"   
  
"Breath play - did he choke you while you two were..."   
  
"Maybe for a moment before you walked in? Why does this matter? Some guys are into some kinky shit...but uh, let's change the subject." Hannah's eye tear away from Michaela's as she struts towards her bed. Taking a seat, she eyes the files. "Anything interesting happen at work today?"   
  
"Fair enough." Michaela breathes, mostly to herself as she turns to follow the blonde. She quickly dismisses the image of her neighbour strangling her roommate mid-penetration from earlier that night. "Another dead body left behind by this sicko." she sighs, motioning towards the file on her bed entitled 'THE BOSTON STRANGLER'.   
  
"That's not what I meant." Hannah pauses, studying her friend's posture as her breathing slows.   
  
"I-I guess I got frustrated with one of the witnesses and had a meltdown because this case feels like its going nowhere and...Quinten he..."  
  
"He isn't healthy." Hannah states, "You know he isn't."   
  
"I know." she sighs, her gaze meeting the twiddling thumbs resting in her lap, "But he was sweet to me today, made a real effort to comfort me - which is something he has never cared to do in the past."   
  
"Just be careful." the blonde cautions her, "All he's ever done is cause you pain."   
  
***  
  
Dean's footsteps are heavy as he trudges into his apartment, immediately slamming the door shut behind him in a fit of rage. His hands shake at his sides relentlessly, and his entire being urges him to march back over to his neighbour's house and finish what he started. He cannot rest until the two remaining eyewitnesses are found in some ditch far away from Boston. His jaw clenches and his perfect teeth grind up against each other. He reaches out, slamming his fist into the door. His knuckles nearly feel broken, and blood gushes from the torn flesh. Dean's head is pounding now, his mind screaming at him once again. The voices never tire as he closes his eyes, rocking back and forth as his body slides to the ground. His motions are slow at first, as if his mind were intentionally offering him the illusion of self-control. The whispers in his head grow louder and louder, like a hammer repeatedly smashing against his skull. Dean is suffocating, his counterpart reminding him of the satisfaction of watching another human struggle for air before the inevitably fall limp in his stone grip. Then, as if someone had hastily pressed a fast forward button on his life, the green eyed man jumps to his feet, grabbing a nearby picture frame and hurling it at the wall. 

 _"Kill them."_ the voice insists, _"Kill them both."_

Dean stills, "I can't kill a cop."   
  
 _"You have to."  
  
_ Dean paces circles around his apartment all night, at war with himself as he consumes enough alcohol to sedate a small army. At one point he picks up his phone and calls Castiel, hoping that for once in his life, someone can veer him away from doing something he will regret. Dean frowns as a rather familiar and exquisitely cheery voice rings through his ears.   
  
 _Voicemail. Of course. Who the hell would be awake at this hour?_

The extreme amounts of alcohol soaking into his system seem to have no effect on the man as he paces around his apartment for the millionth time that night. 

 _You're absolutely pathetic._ thevoices in his head echo. _What kind of man wills another to stop him from doing what he needs to do? No one will ever love you. Your father could have cared less about who you've become, the type of beast who so badly needs to be put to rest for the horrible things that he has done. And your mother..._ The words mock him, but the man is unable to muffle them.  _Well, your mother...she created you. She crafted such an abomination of a man that she herself abandoned you, left you and your father for another. And where is she now?_  
  
Dean can't take it anymore as his eyes meet the broken shards of glass decorated with a fine crimson colour. They glisten in the dim light. Dancing, taunting Dean with what he has amounted to.  
  
For the very first time in Dean's life, he stills, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhales. The voices in his head are drowning now, completely submerged in a body of water. As he exhales, Dean finds himself grabbing his car keys and nearly sprinting out of his apartment. The man ignores the rain that has already begun covering his clothing and skin. His footsteps are heavy and he concentrates solely on his breathing. He fumbles with his car keys until he finally finds the button which unlocks his car. Stepping inside, he focuses on nothing but the gentle pitter-patter of the rain above his head, the soft hum of some classic rock radio station, and the open road until he arrives at his destination. 

***  
  
Castiel's head rests soundly on the white fluffy pillow of his now far too vacant bed. Gentle tufts of brown hair fan out on the creamy cushion as he rubs his forehead with his right hand. His eyes are shut, pretending to be elsewhere. Long exhales escape the exhausted man as his chest rises and falls in a steady, distinctive pattern. He has held the same position for several hours now, the thought of Dean successfully clouding his thoughts and making sleep impossible.   
  
The atmosphere of the room is haunting to him. He hasn't returned to the location since the night of the tragedy. A part of him keeps waiting to hear something, anything. A bang, a thud, the gentle whimpering of his wife which he had only presumed to be an act of deviance, of ill fated pleasure. Castiel admits that his marriage had been far from happy, another broken union between lovers. He had been aware of his significant other's recreational activities. He knew he hadn't been enough for her, he is never enough for anyone. Not a single human being in Castiel's life had treated him as if he were the sun. But he loved Meg with all of his heart, even though he knew that same unconditional love would never have been reciprocated. Maybe that's his problem entirely. He falls in love far too quickly and shatters even faster. 

He had been an idiot to think so highly of Dean. After all, he had just been another handsome, southern, he-devil who said and did the right things until he got what he desired most. The object of his affection in that particular moment had been Castiel, and Castiel was a fool to let him in.   
  
He recalls the feeling of Dean's palms around his throat, his voice raised in such a manner it sent a profound response down Castiel's spine, but most importantly, he remembers his empty, vacant eyes boring into him. In that very moment, he could swear that Dean Winchester, a man so glib and confident with himself, had been completely devoid of any signs of life.   
  
The blue-eyed man jolts upward as a sudden eruption of noise echoes throughout his home. Castiel, wearing only his loose pair of black boxers, hesitantly makes his way down a flight of stairs and to the door. The violent banging continues and the rain outside grows heavier, winds whipping away at the trees. He wonders who the hell would be visiting his home - now a former crime scene - at 4 o'clock in the morning. Given the rather frantic nature of the knocking and the recent murders in his neighbourhood, Castiel pulls open the door without any further thought.

A completely drenched Dean Winchester stands at his doorstep, his green eyes pleading and borderline teary. His dirty blonde hair remains matted to his forehead and a few water droplets rest comfortably across his facial features. Castiel can't allow himself to feel sympathetic towards the man, the same animal who screamed at him and treated him like garbage.   
  
"What the hell are you doing here?" Castiel asks, far too tired to raise his voice, "I told you I never wanted to see your face again." Dean licks his lips and shakes his head as a desperate act of redemption.    
  
"Cas-" he begs, only to be cut off by the younger of the two.   
  
"I don't want to hear it." Castiel sighs, "You need to leave."   
  
"I wasn't myself earlier." Dean states, his eyes watery and pleading.   
  
"Were you yourself when you left me for dead back on that road?" Cas challenges.   
  
"Castiel, I never meant to hurt you. I'm toxic, I know that now. Everyone I have ever felt something for always ends up hurt. My head is pounding and I just don't know how to shut it off. There's just so much noise, Cas, it's blinding me. I can't see or do anything for myself anymore. I'm always at battle with myself, but with you I feel...alive."

"Do you say that to all of your little boy toys?" Castiel forces himself to guard his walls, "We nearly fucked until we were interrupted. Are you here to finish the crime?"   
  
"I'm here because I have no one else to turn to. I promise it isn't like that. I feel something for you, Cas. Something genuine and real. God knows I only fuck things up. I ran that night because I was afraid of my emotions for you. I regret it so damn much. I should've been there for you-" A sudden jolt of lightening interrupts the conversation.   
  
"You look like you're freezing," Cas sighs, "Come inside." Dean almost smiles at his act of kindness, avoiding eye contact as crosses the door frame into his house. A part of him stirs at the all too familiar area. The last time he had been here, it had been to murder Castiel's wife. He shoves his aggression aside as the fire stirring inside of him yearns for blood.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, remembering his hands wrapped around the blue-eyed man's throat several hours ago.   
  
"You mean aside from taking a glance of what the other side of the veil looks like for a minute? Just peachy." Castiel fires back at him, his eyes meeting his directly. Dean's eyes flicker away, the intensity building and becoming far too much for him to handle. Castiel disappears for a moment, returning with a towel. He hands it to the elder with haste, silently willing for him to leave. Dean catches a glimpse of the cut on Castiel's hand, and catches it with his own.   
  
Castiel gasps at the sudden contact, nearly shuddering as he watches Dean's thumb stroke tenderly at the cut on the palm of his hand. Wordlessly, the elder brings Castiel's hand to his lips, pressing a soft and delicate kiss directly onto the angry crimson scar. The youngest gulps, but makes no move to tear his hand away from Dean's grasp.   
  
"I never meant to hurt you." Dean cries, a single tear flowing perfectly from the corner of his right eye.   
  
Castiel's pink lips part, the butterflies in his stomach refusing to still. His heart pounds against his ribcage as he steps closer to the man. Dean's lowers in head, never releasing Castiel's hand from his grasp. The rain above their heads softens to a gentle hum when Castiel raises his other hand, placing it tenderly under Dean's chin. He pushes Dean's face to meet his, studying it for a moment like a work of art in a museum. His eyes flutter shut as he leans even closer until his lips connect with the green eyed man. Dean returns the kiss, but this time he is sweet. The kiss is not feral or animalistic, it is loving and fragile. Castiel's hands tangle in Dean's dirty blonde hair, as the kiss slowly intensifies. It is not long before Castiel's lips venture down the killer's neck and his hands grip the hem of his shirt. Dean guides Castiel's lips back to his own, clearly craving more.

"Upstairs." Castiel pants, grabbing one of Dean's rough hands and dragging him up the stairs. As they reach the bedroom, Castiel pulls Dean back to his lips, stumbling backwards as the back of his knees hit the bed. Castiel smiles into the kiss, reaching down to unbuckle the clasp on Dean's belt and push the material down his legs. Dean kicks his pants to the floor and hovers over Castiel, smiling down at the other man as his fingers grip the hem of his shirt. Dean replaces Castiel's fingers with his own as he pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the other side of the room. He leans back down, his hands exploring Castiel's hard abdominal muscles and his lips moving in perfect rhythm with Cas'.  As Castiel's fingers reach the lining of Dean's boxer's, Dean's vision goes red. His head pounds and the other man's fingers begin to grip the dark fabric. Dean abruptly breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on Cas'. He reaches down, stopping Castiel from removing the final layer of fabric on his body.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks, his voice low and sensual.   
  
"I don't want to hurt you." Dean sighs, his eyes still closed.   
  
"You won't." Castiel reassures.   
  
"I don't want to have sex with you tonight." Dean admits. Castiel, slightly offended, feels faint, "I can't...I-I won't." The elder man removes his body weight from Castiel's, sitting up to face him.  
  
Castiel stills, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He brings one hand up to touch his lips, mirroring a school girl who has just received her first kiss from the quarterback of the football team. There he goes again, letting his walls down for just long enough to be completely demolished. The younger man can't speak as his bright blue eyes begin to water.   
  
"You misunderstand me." Dean speaks, his voice like velvet, "I do want you, Castiel. God I want you so damn badly..." he pauses and clears his throat, "I just...I want to be close to you right now."   
  
"Are you not attracted to me?" Castiel asks, his voice not louder than a meek whisper.  
  
"Are you kidding?" Dean snorts a laugh, "I'm so attracted to you it terrifies me." 

A moment of brief silence passes between the pair. 

"Do you think you..." Dean starts, his throat suddenly dry and sore, "Could you just hold me?" 

Castiel, clearly shocked by Dean's intimate request replies, "Of course."  
  
Dean back down on the mattress as Castiel snuggles up closer to him, wrapping his arms around Dean's muscular form. The green eyed man's head screams at him for relaxing, for surrendering his dominance for a moment of bliss. All destructive thoughts disappear from his mind as he nestles into Castiel. Dean closes his eyes and breathes in the other man's scent. At that very moment, Dean places a muzzle on his inner demons, and there is no one else in the entire world except for him and Castiel. He forgets about the trail of bodies he has left behind, and the detectives closing in on him every day.  He is finally himself again, and for the next few hours, he would be normal. Just a man spending time with another, willing himself the freedom to truly live.

For the first time in a very long time, Dean feels at home. 


	10. Bittersweet Exchanges

Michaela arrives alone at work the following morning. The night's events are still racing through her head as she presses a button ordering the elevator open. She will never be able to erase the still incredibly vivid image of her neighbour with his hands wrapped around her closest friend's neck, but perhaps that's exactly what she needs. In a way she feels completely rejuvenated, her motivation to catch the killer stronger than ever. A pile of files lay clumsily in her hands as she steps into the elevator. She winces as a hand shoots out and prevents the doors from closing. Files fly from her hands, papers scattering like an array across the elevator floor. 

"Shit." Michaela breathes, her eyes closing as she turns to face the second body.

"Crap Mykie, I'm sorry let me..." Quinten starts as the doors shut behind him, leaving the pair completely alone. 

"No no, it's fine. Really, I got it." Michaela mumbles, bending to collect the scattered sheets of classified documents. Reaching for the papers at the same time, the former lovers' heads collide. 

"Ow!" they cry out, each reaching up to rub their heads. Michaela collapses onto the elevator floor and bursts into a fit of giggles. Quinten smiles down at her, slowly proceeding to collect the discarded papers whilst silently admiring his partner. Michaela's eyes begin to water, a clear consequence to the hilarity she found in their current situation. Her giggling ends as she realizes the sudden silence of the tiny, confined area. She gazes upwards, her eyes accidently locking with Quinten's. 

Suddenly she swears her ribcage is bruised, and finds difficulty breathing. The aroma of his cologne lingers in the air and folds her nostrils, appearing more concentrated in the close quarters. A delicate mixture of spices and woody aroma, just like he used to wear before. Her heart pounds in her ears and she feels dizzy. She can't allow herself to be brainwashed by his charms, not again. She won't.

Maybe returning to the bureau was a horrible mistake. 

A forcibly loud and enormously awkward cough sounds through the space, sending Michaela back to reality. She peers up at the source of the noise and finds herself embarrassed when she realizes how intimate the position must seem to the third party. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Lieutenant Cross asks, his arms crossed in front of his chest in order to assume a sense of authority. Michaela feels small and vulnerable. She collects herself, smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt and blindly reaching for the discarded documents. Quinten hands them to her, standing to face the Lieutenant. 

"With him?" Michaela smirks, gesturing towards her partner, "Of course not." Quinten's shoulders drop, slightly offended by Michaela's harsh words. "He scared the crap out of me and made me drop my files." she continues, suddenly finding herself sandwiched between the two men. "Anyways," she chirps, taking a sharp breath and strutting out of the elevator, "Big day today!" 

"Yeah." Quinten's reply is nearly inaudible to the human ear.

"Is Des in yet?" she asks, ignoring Quinten as he struggles to catch up with her. 

"Not yet." Balthazar sighs, clearly exasperated, "He's always a few minutes late." 

"Alright..." Michaela replies, reaching a perfectly manicured hand towards the knob of the briefing room door, "Let's all just hope that the results provide us with some type of lead. We can't let this asshole flee and wreak havoc in another city." The brunette slams the documents on the table in front of her, pacing around the room as she awaits Desmond's arrival. 

***

Castiel's bright blue eyes are the first to flutter open. A bright light shines through the windows in his former martial bedroom, casting a shadow directly on his face. A groan becomes caught in his throat when he realizes his current situation. He is far from alone. His arms are draped protectively around another man, their legs tangled together in an all too natural position. They share a comfortable warmth and Castiel is reluctant to move. He wonders who is in his bed for a brief moment before realizing the only plausible explanation.

Dean Winchester. 

Of fucking course it's Dean Winchester. 

The elder of the two had been nothing but trouble from the second Castiel laid eyes on him that morning at the bar. He had intrigued him from the very first glimpse. Castiel likes to think of the man as a drug. Perhaps it's his sweet southern drawl or intoxicating scent that invaded Cas' rationale and got under his skin, or maybe it was the taste of his lips. Nonetheless, Castiel desperately attempts to recall the previous night's events. The aroma of alcohol is clearly diffused throughout the room, and he can't differentiate between himself and Dean, which can only mean that they had both been drinking. He wonders why and how the hell Dean Winchester ended up in his bed after viciously assaulting him. Castiel nearly jumps as the warm body entangled in his arms shifts towards him. 

Dean's dirty blonde hair gently brushes against Castiel's bare skin, evoking a patch of goose bumps to form. His eyes are barely open as he catches sight of Cas, a mixture of sunlight and exhaustion both enhancing the vibrant green flecks in his eyes. A sleepy smile passes his lips as he examines Castiel's face.

"Mornin' blue eyes." he smiles up at the man, his voice groggy and more southern than usual. The night's events come crashing back to Castiel when he hears the man speak. He hesitates for a moment, staring blankly at Dean. After careful thought, he retracts his arms from around the man and awkwardly shifts to the other side of the bed. Dean frowns. 

"I can't do this." Castiel mumbles, hugging the sheets tighter to his exposed flesh.

"We didn't-" Dean starts only to be cut off by Castiel. 

"I know we didn't." he confirms, averting his eyes from the other man's gaze, "I'm not going to allow myself to fall victim to your charm, not after everything that has happened." 

It isn't your charm he's going to fall victim to. The voice in Dean's head echoes, irritated for being silenced. 

"Shut up." Dean mumbles to himself. 

"Excuse me?" Castiel raises an eyebrow at his sudden outburst. 

"Not you." he shakes his head and sits to face the younger man, "Look, Castiel...I don't know if you remember what I said to you last night or not, but I meant every word and I'll say it again. I'm toxic - completely dangerous, even - but when I'm with you the lines between reality seem perfectly clear. I wish I never hurt you, I don't mean to hurt people...I just do." Dean sighs. What Castiel fails to realize is the blatant honesty in Dean's confession, "You seem to silence my demons." 

He considers for a moment how incredible it would feel to press his lips to Dean's and spend the morning in bed. His heart screams at him, urging him to follow the alluring compulsion of the Winchester's kind words and sexy bedhead, but a tiny voice in his head argues otherwise. 

"Dean...you can't do that." Castiel licks his lips, "It isn't fair." Dean tilts his head, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "You cannot march in here, blame your actions on your inner demons and expect to be forgiven. This isn't some movie, it's real life. I have issues too. Hell, we all do. The difference is how we communicate. I don't go strangling a stranger I barely know when I don't get my way." Castiel pauses, examining Dean's self-loathing expression. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Dean." he mutters, "Call me a hopeless romantic, but whatever we had the potential of becoming is clearly gone now." A lump forms in Dean's throat and the voices in his head become louder and louder with each passing syllable. 

Castiel sighs, staring the other man straight in the eyes one final time before standing from the bed. He collects his clothing and turns towards the adjoining bathroom. Gripping the handle with his hand, he turns back towards the man, "You fucked up, Dean." he laughs, completely void of life," You fucked up." 

Castiel closes the heavy wooden door and disappears from Dean's sight. The older man is left alone with his thoughts and the companionship of Castiel's quickly fading warmth on the mattress. He has no one to blame but himself. 

The voices in his head laugh, mocking his vulnerability. 

 

Are you done playing house? They question. Dean's hands form fists by his sides. 

You fucked up, Dean. His alter-ego repeats as Dean rips the sheets from his body. You. Fucked. Up.

***

Michaela paces around the tiny briefing room in circles, her eyes repeatedly dissecting each and every crime scene photo. 

"Where the hell is he? It's been hours." Michaela sighs, placing both of her hands flat against the long wooden table. She stares down at the photographs only to have lifeless, vacant eyes stare back at her, "This son of a bitch made a mistake. He left evidence. Tangible DNA evidence that can be used to locate and lock him away forever. And what do we do? We take hours - scratch that - days trying to analyze the blood. In that time he has killed how many more innocent people? God only knows! We're supposed to be protecting these people, not sitting on our asses for results that seem to never be coming." 

Quinten watches her from across the room, knowing all too well that telling the woman to calm down would be a giant mistake. Instead, he watches her intently with his arms crossed until a familiar redhead races down the hall. Michaela's head immediately snaps up to face the third party and Quinten allows his arms to fall to his side. 

"I just spoke to Des." she states, a solemn look washing over her pretty face. Pausing, she brings a hand up to her face to brush away a stray strand of hair, "There was some sort of machine malfunction...and test was inconclusive." 

"Of fucking course." Michaela smiles, shaking her head in disbelief. 

"They're running it again and we can expect results by as early as tomorrow morning." she continues, ignoring the brunette's inappropriate comment. 

"Thanks Anna." Quinten breathes, his focus resting on the brunette as he speaks. No one utters a word as the redhead exits the room, leaving the pair alone. 

"I can't believe this!" Michaela slams her hands on a nearby wall. Now Quinten is by her side with a gentle hand pressed on her upper back. 

"There's nothing we can do right now." he sighs, disappointed with the functioning of the current criminal justice system, "Let me take you home. We could all use some rest." 

"No, I'll stay here. There has to be something in these photos - anything - that gives this bastard away." she starts, finally taking notice to her former lover's hand resting on her back, "Only for a little, then I'll go home. I swear." 

"You're kind of famous for overworking yourself to the point of staying up all night, Mykie." he laughs, the casual use of her once comfortable nickname stirring the emotion of the room, "Why don't you come back to my place." Quinn freezes, knowing that the idea of Michaela ever returning to the apartment that they once shared together was nearly impossible, "I can make you dinner and we can examine the case files together. I'll drive you home afterwards to make sure you get some rest." 

Michaela's breathing slows as she is suddenly unable to form the word 'no' with her mouth. Her posture relaxes into him as she turns around to face the man. Her eyes meet his, and she realizes that he is completely flushed. She forces out a small, "Alright" and watches as the light illuminating the room reflects off of his eyes, causing them to gently twinkle. 

***  
A soft breeze passes through the streets of Boston. The gust is strong enough to compliment the wild life and all of the magnificent creations mother nature has to offer, while ensuring that innocent citizens creeping around the stone decorated exterior remain safe and collected from the mild assault. The forecast had called for a slight chance of rain, which was more than typical for this time of year. All in all, the weather was perfect for thinking. 

 

Children scurry past the stranger, glancing up at the mysterious man as they rushed towards their loving mothers who had prepared a fresh plate of steaming food on the table for their little ones. It was the time of day when giggles of children ran rampant amongst the streets, and everyone shared a silent understanding as they rushed home to safety and comfort of their families. 

The Winchester's black boots hung heavy on his feet, colliding with the stones beneath him time and time again as he took a step forward. The voices in his head tumbled around his skull, causing his temples to throb and his head to ache. His hands lingered by his sides and his vision was red. With every passing citizen, the urge to drain a life became stronger, and he became weaker. 

A slim, redheaded woman quickly approaches the man before stilling. Her eyes widen in terror, and the grocery bags she is holding drops to the floor in a violent manner. Eggs spill out of the bag and scatter on the streets. The woman's chest rises for a brief moment before her mouth opens and a loud shriek erupts from her body. He studies her, questioning the powerful response. In one swift motion, he peers down and notices his hand wrapped around her neck. His grip tightens unwillingly as a smirk plasters itself across Dean's finer features. All at once, he stops. Something hard bumps into his shoulder, the offender muttering a single word as she passes by him. 

"Freak." 

Dean freezes, turning around only to see the same redhead signaling a bright yellow taxi. His head snaps forward to view his hands clenched in fists by his sides. Shaking his head, the man continues his long journey home. 

***  
Michaela's long brown hair sways back and forth behind her back as she follows Quinten to the door of his apartment. The light brown wood wielding the number twenty-eight in shiny gold lettering is all too familiar and normal to the women as he swings the door open and crosses through the threshold. She views the section of space as a barrier, one which if she crosses, she will only be transported back to her past. Michaela eyes the inside of his apartment, a knot twisting in her chest when she is reminded of the sheer joy and happiness she once felt with this man. 

"You coming?" Quinten questions, turning to look at her with a cheeky smile. Michaela nods, taking a deep breath and a large step forward. Her eyes peer down, fixating on the tiles below her feet. Quinten's body gently brushes against hers when he reaches to shut the door. Her breath hitches and she composes herself, bringing her own eyes up to meet his for the first time since entering the apartment. "Alright." he exclaims, clapping his hands together and making his way toward the fridge, "Unfortunately I wasn't expecting any guests so I don't have much variety in the ways of food." Michaela smiles over at him, the slightest glint of adoration dancing in her eyes. "Lucky for you, I do have some left over spaghetti. I know it used to be your favourite." Her smile falters slightly at the statement and her brain urges her to keep the visit strictly business.

"I already had pasta for lunch." Michaela states, knowing full well that she is spewing blatant lies.

Quinten notices, slightly biting his lip and nodding. "Or we could always just order in a pizza."

"Pizza works." she smiles back, awkwardly standing by the door. 

"Alright, I'll order." he pauses, examining the woman's obvious anxiety, "Feel free to make yourself at home." She obliges, forcing her feet to walk towards the couch. She takes a seat in her all time favourite spot, recalling a time when she would curl up in Quinten's arms and enjoy his company. The thought shakes her, and she moves a few inches to the left to a more unfamiliar position. An eerie feeling creeps into the pit of her stomach and she begins to wonder if she should just leave. Maybe revisiting her past was a mistake. 

"Can I offer you some wine?" Quinten asks, aware of his former lover's uncomfort. 

"Please." Michaela peers back over her shoulder and shoots him a soft smile. "I can't believe we're just letting this asshole kill people." she huffs, "Protect and serve my ass."

"You know there's nothing we can do about it." Quinten glances over at her, raising an eyebrow while he pours a carefully marked bottle of red wine into a glass. "We've done all that we can and then some."

"Before I became your partner, I worked several cases and watched a numerous amount of guilty men walk free because the only trace of tangible DNA evidence we had was either tampered with, or because technology like identifying DNA matches was such a lengthy process and the killer just...got away." she sighs, placing a hand on her forehead. Quinten walks around to hand her the glass of wine, and takes a seat beside her. "Thank you." she breathes. He nods, frowning a little at how defeated she looks. 

"It isn't your fault, Mykie." he soothes her, the casual use of her nickname no longer drawing attention to the tension between the pair. "Sure. the technology is slow...but you're the best damn agent i've ever seen." 

Michaela's head snaps up at his kind words. She is unsure if she heard him correctly. It was incredibly rare for Quinten Rivers to let his walls down and even more unusual for him to pay someone a genuine compliment. Sure, when they were an item he treated her well and never laid a finger on her, but in the end it was his intense narcissism and incessant need to flirt with anything that had legs that tore them apart. Every once in awhile he would've shot a "hey sexy" or other flattering, yet particularly demeaning remarks her way, but never a heartfelt, genuine compliment. She sits at a loss for words, her delicate fingers shaking against the glass in her hands. 

"You think so?" she asks, a stray piece of hair falling in front of her eyes. 

"Are you kidding?" he laughs, "Who else do you know that ignored all sense of danger, took down an entire trafficking ring while undercover, and managed to look badass doing it?" Quinten decides to take a different approach in comforting Michaela, convinced that some innocent and playful teasing her would no doubt lift her spirits. "You kicked some ass, girl!" For the first time that night, she laughs. "Is that a smile I see? On Mykie Brooks' face?!?" 

"Shut up." she laughs, her eyes twinkling from the apartment lights above, "You know I could kick your ass, Rivers." 

"Is that a challenge?" he asked, amused by her sudden change of attitude. He pauses, leaning forward to place his glass of wine on the coffee table by his feet. Michaela rolls her eyes and brings the glass to her lips, taking a small swig of wine before Quinten removes the glass from her hands. 

"Hey!" she protests. 

"Come on Brooks, on your feet!" he orders, his fists now guarding his face. The brunette groans playfully as Quinten pulls her to her feet to stand across from him. "Show me what you got."


	11. Fatal Attraction

Thunder crashes overhead, signaling the beginning of an angry storm. The clouds grey and shield any willing eyes from the pure beauty and innocence of the sunlight. The streets are deafeningly quiet. Children have rushed inside, frightened by the loud, unwelcoming movements from the sky above. 

But he remains. He slithers quietly through the empty streets of Boston, allowing his boots to thump evenly against the stone roads. His hands rest deep within his pockets, his breaths coming slow and even. The day's previous events lingers within his skull, replaying over and over again like a broken record. How dare Castiel possess such wicked audacity to tell him how he should be behaving. The compassionate human being is gone now, and the abomination has returned. He cannot fight it any longer. 

Reaching his destination, the monster removes his hands from his pockets and forms one of them into a fist. He knocks on the door in front of him three times, preparing to present his best gentlemen facade. The door swings open to reveal a familiar and rather petite blonde woman. 

***  
 Michaela shrugs off the black blazer she was wearing and tosses it onto the couch.  
  
"Bring it." she mimics Quinten's readied stance, meeting his eyes and throwing a taunting smirk his way. She throws a right jab at his head and he ducks his head to the side. He smiles back at her. Then, she swings at his head with her left hand. Again, he effectively ducks under the attack and blocks yet another punch. Michaela lifts her leg up and throws her foot back into his stomach. He stumbles back, bracing himself and smiling over at her. She smiles back, barely panting. He raises his hands, creating a playful "come on" motion with his fingers. 

She throws an axe kick over his head and he ducks, blocking yet another one of her punches on the way back up. Quinten punches back and she blocks it, returning with another kick to his side. He blocks two more of her kicks before he throws his own above her head, which she effectively ducks under and sweeps her own foot at his. He stumbles, both of them panting now.  They increase the speed as Quinten punches at her twice, hitting her in the arm once. Managing to somehow grab her arm on the next punch she throws, he pulls her back into him.   
  
Michaela gasps, feeling Quinten's hot and heavy breathing tickling at the hair by her neck.   
  
"Gotcha." Quinten whispers into her ear. Michaela's heart pounds faster in her chest as her knees grow weaker in his embrace. She turns her head to the side, searching for his face. Her blue eyes meet his and she attempts to look away. Michaela's lips part when her eyes unexpectedly flicker down to his soft and inviting lips.   
  
She tilts her head up, slowly closing the space between their faces until their lips finally meet. They move in unison, slow and sensual, fitting together like the perfect puzzle they used to be. He loosens his grip on her, allowing her to turn and face him. Her hands quickly find themselves tangled in his short, dark hair. He pulls her in closer to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her frail body. Her fingers move down to fumble with the buttons on his navy blue button down shirt. He continues kissing her and appreciating her body as Michaela slides the fabric off of his shoulders and onto the ground. Now he moves to undo the buttons on her blouse, pushing the material to join his own shirt. His fingers brush up against her bare back, caressing her gently for a moment before unhooking the white lacy bra Michaela was wearing. 

He wraps his arms around her once again and lifts her up, her legs expertly tangling around his waist as he does. She kisses along his jawline and down his neck as the pair move to his bedroom.   
  
Together, they fall on the bed they once shared. He kicks off his pants and she works at her own. Quinten pauses in utter awe of her beauty.   
  
"You're beautiful." he breathes, not afraid to express himself to her anymore. Her cheeks turn red as she peers up at him. "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

"Yes." she smiles, her arms still around his neck. "I've missed you so much, Quinn." His fingers hook onto her underwear and slowly slides the fabric down her long legs. Before anything, Quinten moves back up to plant a soft, open mouthed kiss on Michaela's awaiting lips.   
  
"God I love kissing you." he smiles, peering down at an all too familiar scene. To him, she was a delicate masterpiece. Only, no artist would be able to capture the mere essence of her sheer beauty. This girl deserves to be loved and cherished, and he intends to do just that. As he leaves a trail of gentle kisses down her chest and stomach, Michaela can only think of four words.   
  
_I love you, Quinn._

***  
  
"Dean?" Hannah asks hesitantly, remembering her conversation with Michaela. Her tiny body remains pressed to the doorframe, a little intimidated by the strongly built man in front of her.

  
"Hey stranger." he smirks, pursing his plump lips and raising one of his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
"Is this supposed to be a booty call?" she scoffs, surprised by Dean's towering posture, "Wait, are you drunk?" she pauses, shutting the door a little.

"I'm just messing with you." he chuckles, dropping his facial expressions, "I just wanted to talk to you about what happened the other night." Hannah nods, relaxing ever so slightly. "Do you mind if I come in?" Hannah licks her lips. pausing to evaluate the situation. After a moment of contemplation, she replies.  
  
"Of course." Hannah smiles, pressing one of her hands against the door to push it open and allow Dean inside. He flashes one of his signature smiles at her and crosses the barrier. His green eyes scan the apartment as he waits for her to lock the door. 

"Alright." he claps his hands together in front of him, "First of all, I want to clear the air on a few things. I do genuinely like you." he lies, " The last thing I want you to think is that I was using you for my own pleasure. I was on the edge and you talked me out of jumping." She remains silent and close to the apartment door, her arms firmly crossed against her chest. "You are completely beautiful, and frankly, you fascinate me." He takes a step towards her, meeting the same eyes that bear a striking resemblance to the man who practically spat in his face earlier that morning. " Everything about you is intriguing, and if you'd let me, I would like to get to know you better." The blonde's arms drop to her sides and she is at a loss for words. No one has ever spoken to her so genuinely before. Her gaze drops and she rushes to the other side of the room. His eyes follow her every movement.   
  
"I don't know what to say." she sighs, avoiding eye contact.  
  
"You don't have to decide right now." Dean reassures her, slowly closing the space between the two of them. Her back remains to him as he moves closer and closer, until his mouth is at her ear. Dean's finger gently brushes away Hannah's blonde hair until it cascades down her back. "Can I kiss you?" his breath is hot on her ear and she shudders.   
  
"Yes." The young blonde all but quivers. She tilts her head to the side and her eyes flutter shut. The world becomes a blur as his lips press onto her. He moves excruciatingly slow at first, just barely allowing her the satisfaction of their electrifying friction. His mouth stays shut as her tongue begs for entrance. Dean's muscular body engulfs her tiny figure and pushes her backwards until she collides into a nearby wall. The kiss breaks and Hannah parts her lips, allowing a small moan to escape. His hands move to the hem of the black and white striped v-neck she is wearing and he pushes one sleeve away, revealing a pronounced collarbone. Hannah throws her head backwards as Dean's plump lips suck a her neck. He leaves a trail of wet kisses all the way to her collarbone before returning to her slightly parted, and all too inviting lips.  
  
The second time his lips meet hers is completely intense and sloppy. She hungers for him - to feel what she felt the night prior, and to complete what they had left unfinished. His tongue finally enters her mouth and a jolt of ecstasy courses through Hannah's veins. In one swift motion, Dean shifts and slams Hannah's body backwards to face him. He pushes her hands above her head as he pulls on her bottom lip with his teeth. His hands travel down the length of her arms and knot roughly in her hair for a moment before continuing downwards. Hannah twists in his embrace, her body overwhelmed by the immense amount of pleasure she is receiving from the man. She knots her own hands in the Winchester's short dirty blonde locks. His hands brush over her breasts for a moment before moving to the waistband of her black jean shorts. He unbuttons them and pushes one of his large hands inside to cup her growing heat.   
  
"You're so wet." he growls into her lips, beginning to rub soft circles into her. Blood rushes to Hannah's head and she feels faint. Normally, she wasn't into getting down and dirty up against her wall with a man she barely knew, but there was something alluring and incredibly arousing about Dean. Her lips break away from his to cry out as one of his long fingers slips inside of her. "I hope your roommate doesn't walk in on this. Although, I'm sure she would love to see her friend up against the wall, completely falling apart at the hands of a man she barely knows." Hannah moans loudly, biting her own lip as Dean adds another finger.   
  
"S-she's not....c-coming home...tonight." Hannah struggles to form a coherent sentence. Dean smirks down at the writhing girl and brings his free hand up to cup her neck as Hannah nears her orgasm. The pressure of Dean's large hand constricting her air causes Hannah to choke as she cries out, her ears opening to meet Dean's as she does. He releases her from his grip and stares back at her as she struggles to catch her breath. His fingers slip out of her, continuing to study her now flushed face. He brings his fingers to his mouth, slowly licking them clean.   
  
"Dean..." she pauses, swallowing hard, "I..." He ignores her, slamming her body back up against the wall. "Stop!" she cries out, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Her body is screaming at her to let him continue, but her brain remembers Michaela's warnings. Something about the way his hand so naturally strangled her was terrifying, and Hannah did not want to find herself as the Boston Strangler's next victim. She takes a moment to steady her thoughts, which is long enough for her to ready her knee and slam it up into Dean's groin. 

He retracts his hand, screaming out in pain and stumbling backwards. Hannah gasps for air, coughing as she runs towards the back entrance of her apartment. Dean steadies himself, his vision turning blurry and red.   
  
"What the fuck?!?" he yells, gritting his teeth and glaring over at her. 

"Stay away from me!" she screams so loud that the pitch of her voice breaks halfway through.   
  
"Naughty girl." Dean chuckles, his voice now dark and raspy. "We can play rough."  Hannah's hands fumble with the cordless phone in her kitchen, her fingers shaking as she dials 9-1-

The man's hands swipe the phone from hers before she dials the final digit, slamming her back against the kitchen counter. Her tiny hands struggle free from his solid grip, bringing her fist back ever so slightly before swinging at Dean's face. Again, he stumbles backwards, cocking and shaking his head menacingly. She readies her foot, effectively slamming the bottom into Dean's stomach and pushing him backwards. She grabs a knife from the drawer to her left, aiming it at Dean as she darts for the phone on the ground.  
  
Dean tackles her before she reaches it. He pins her to the ground by her wrists and the knife hits the tile beside them with a loud clang.   
  
"Why are you doing this to me?" she cries out, feeling his hot breath on her face from above her body. She twists at the restraints, using her legs to frantically kick at Dean's lower body. He smirks, lowering his face to a position where it is only a few inches from hers.  
  
"Because it's fun." he smirks in a mere whisper, sending Hannah's entire body into shock. Her eyes search the room as she attempts to calm herself. Her roommate has taught her several defenses from a vast majority of attacks, now all she has to do is search her thoughts and clear her mind in order to save her own life.   
  
In one swift movement she bucks her hips, sending Dean flying forward far enough for him to slit the palm of his hand on the exposed blade. He winces as the steel sharpy tears through the layers of skin, allowing Hannah enough time to pin his right arm and leg to her body, entrapping him as she rolls over to mount him. She sends one of her fists forward, hitting him sharpy in the nose to daze him. 

"Fuck!" He shrieks, bringing his left hand up to cottle his throbbing nose. 

Hannah scrambles to her feet, gasping when one of Dean's hands wraps around her ankle. She can feel his blood, boiling hot, against her exposed skin. Using all of her strength she kicks at his hand until she is free, catching her balance with her hands. She pushes against her palms, lifting her body weight upwards and to a standing position. He scrambles to mimic her actions, but she is already sprinting towards the front door. Dean grabs the bloody knife in his hand and chases after her. As his footsteps advance, her heart rate increases and she feels light headed. 

"You bitch!" he screams, closing the distance between them as she fumbles with the lock on her front door. In a fit of blinding rage he throws the knife at her. The blade lands in her upper thigh and she screams out in pain. "Y'know, I'm usually not this messy." His taunting large figure approaches hers like an unwanted shadow, grabbing onto the knife and pulling it out of her leg. Now his fist is buried deep in her long blonde hair, dragging her deeper into her apartment. "For you, I'll play rough." he whispers into her ear. She squirms, trying to free herself from his grasp, but the pull on her hair is far too strong and painful to move. 

Dean pins her up against the same wall that was once used to provide her with an earth shattering amount of pleasure only minutes ago.

"Funny, you weren't complaining when my fingers were inside of you." he smirks, bringing his free hand to lightly caress her upper thigh. "But then again, I guess it isn't exactly your fault. I mean, It's not like you could know that the guy who you just let in your pants is a twisted, psychotic, cold-blooded killer."  The blonde screams, anticipating the horrible, degrading actions to come. 

"That's it." he laughs, "Scream all you want. No one can hear you." She never once imagined to be in this position - the all too willing slut who is inevitably seduced by the killer and left naked mutilated on the side of the road, or in some ditch somewhere for all to see. "Now, I'm not a complete monster." he laughs, using the end of the blade to trace the shape of Hannah's face, "See, unlike the other perverted, scum of the earth, abominations out there, I find no particular pleasure in rape." he pauses, examining the fearful expression that has washed over her face, "You'll have to remember that _you_  are the one who invited me into your apartment" he gestures around the room, "Into your heart." he pouts, aiming the pointed end of the knife at her chest, _"Into your pants."_ he whispers, feeling Hannah's trembling and frail body against his own. "Now now, sweetheart. You've got to accept the simple fact that death is near."   
  
"Please." she whimpers, feeling far too weak to fight back, "Don't do this."   
  
"You're a fighter, I'll give you that." he smiles, his dark eyes fixating on hers, "Open your eyes, sweetheart."   
  
She bites down on her lip so hard that she draws blood.

"Open your eyes." he repeats, pressing his thumb deep into the wound on her upper thigh. She shrieks out in excruciating pain and finally opens her eyes. "If it's any consolation, I really don't want to do this. Believe it or not, I had no plans on killing you tonight."   
  
"Then don't." she breathes, pleading her her life.   
  
"I'm sorry." the sweet and sensitive Dean resurfaces just as the cold steel slides through the skin on Hannah's neck. He stops halfway, realizing what he has just done. "Oh god..." he exclaims, the knife slipping from his grasp and landing on the floor beneath them. He releases her from his grasp and she falls to the floor, her blood staining the cream coloured walls behind her back. 

***  
  
Desmond Wolfe taps his floor impatiently behind a desk at the Boston PD forensics lab. A cheery song from the eighties plays softly in the background as the computer finishes processing the blood results. The man is ripped from his thoughts as the machine beeps and displays a photograph on the screen.   
  
_Match found_

 _Name: Dean Winchester_  
Gender: Male  
Age: 16  
Status: Deceased

His eyes widen as he scans the information, searching for the nearest phone to report his rather unusual findings. 


	12. Violent Delights

Castiel spends a good portion of the rainy afternoon pacing around his bedroom until he grows claustrophobic in the confined area. His head is pounding and his breath comes in short gasps. He replays every moment in his head — his unfaithful wife's murder a few short days ago, the forward, but incredibly handsome, green-eyed stranger he met at the bar, Dean's lips pressed against his, the crash, his time at the hospital, last night...  
  
Dean was the only thing on his mind and he absolutely hated it. Castiel takes his thumb, pressing forcibly into the palm of his opposite hand. He winces, a sharp pain reminding him of the toxic green-eyed man. He cannot allow himself to forget the pain. Dean did this to him, and yet he yearns to be close to him. How can something so painful feel so good?  
  
The rain subsides and Castiel peers out the window. His breathing slows as his eyes meet the wonderful sheer rainbow that has appeared overhead. His grip loosens on the palm of his hand, and his fingers gently cradle the wound.  
  
Grabbing a coat, Castiel ventures outside with a clear destination in mind.  
  
***  
She gasps for air, her eyes wide open as she chokes on the thick liquid.  
Her hands roughly grasp at her jugular, applying as much pressure as she can to the wound.  
His hands are by his sides, trembling.    
Everything is still as the gentle pitter patter of the rain bounces off of the ceiling and echoes throughout the room.  
Her violent jerking stills and her hands fall limp. She is reduced to a gentle crimson portrait.  
The walls are closing in now.  
He sees red.  
Splattered behind him, painting the walls and hardwood floor.  
The innocence and purity of such a frail creature replaced with a fiery colour.  
It decorates the interior with intricate strokes and patterns, angrily spiraling in uneven lines.  
Blood seeps out of her wounds, forming a shallow puddle around her body.  
  
Lightning flashes and his face is devoid of colour.  
He sees red.

***  
Castiel paces along the familiar uneven cobblestone and sighs as the sky darkens and is replaced with millions of tiny water droplets.He has been walking for well over an hour now, and it doesn't take long for the rain to cover him like a cold, unwelcoming blanket. The fresh air clears his mind as he approaches the apartment complex. He peers to his right, silently admiring the fading numbers on Dean's door.  
  
This is stupid. Castiel thinks, _I should just head home and forget about him._  
  
Lightning flashes overhead, causing the man to flinch. He shakes his head like a wet dog. His dark brown locks are matted to his forehead and he turns to the left, noticing something odd. Castiel approaches Hannah's door, finding it rather peculiar when a broad shadow flashes past the dimly lit window.   
  
The atmosphere is eerily quiet, aside from the constant boom and flicker of harsh light emitting from the sky. He has goosebumps from the cold air. Castiel reaches out towards the doorknob, twisting it slowly. His heartbeat quickens as door cracks open and light spills into the darkness. He peers to one side, finding the apartment vacant and a mess. He leans back, shutting the door and walking quickly to the opposite apartment.  
  
Castiel brings his fist up and knocks four times. When there is no answer, he bangs harder on the door. After a few seconds of hopeless pounding, Castiel reaches out to twist the door handle. He sighs as the lock clicks into place. His hands fumble in his pockets as he struggles to pull out his phone.   
  
_No, don't be stupid. Calmly assess the situation before being the idiot who calls the cops on a false alarm._  
  
He sighs, putting on a brave face and marching up to Hannah's doorsteps. He twists the knob once again, stepping into the apartment without hesitation. His fists clench at his sides, ready to defend himself if need be.   
  
"Hannah?" he calls out in a whisper. There's no answer. His eyes notice a small pile of discarded clothing on the floor. "Hannah?" he repeats, his voice rising a little, "Are you home?" Lightning flashes outside and Castiel jumps, biting his lip and trying not to scream out.   
  
He catches a faint glimpse of something dark lining the entrance to the kitchen and shivers. His nails dig into the wound in his hand, checking that he isn't stuck in the middle of some horrific nightmare. He follows the stream of dark liquid and reaches over to fumble with a light switch. As a bright light floods throughout the room, Castiel notices a discarded knife on the ground. Blood rushes to his head as he notices the small pool of blood at his feet.  
  
"Oh my God." he gasps, the cell phone dropping from his grip and landing with a sharp clang on the tiled floor.  
  
He gulps, taking a few steps backwards until his foot slips on something beneath his feet. He lands on his back with a hard thud, his entire body now drenched in a pool of warm liquid. He closes his eyes and sits up, counting to three before turning around to face the source. His vibrant eyes meet Hannah's lifeless gray ones and air is caught in his throat. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling for a second time and landing to face the corpse. He is drowning.

  
"Hannah." he breathes, tear forming at the corners of his eyes. He brings his hands up to his face and his breathing becomes short and sporadic. He is completely covered in the fiery colour. Castiel's hands shake and he grows faint.    
  
He shakes his head, attempting to stand for a second time. The attempt is cut short as Castiel's body is slammed to the ground by something. He feels warm hands gripping his neck and his lungs feel like they are on fire. Castiel struggles to escape but grows weak quickly. The hands tighten around his neck like a snake and the world grows dark.  
  
_Shhhhh._  
  
***  
  
_"Mommy?" the young child pauses, his eyes widening in curiosity. He brings a finger up to his mouth, tilting his head to the side. The navy and white plaid shirt he is wearing peaks out from the elastic of his pants. His dirty blonde hair is a mess from rolling around on the floor with his brand new toy car._  
  
_"Hi sweetheart" a woman smiles. Her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder blades as she reaches down to ruffle the child's hair._  
  
_"Who is that?" the boy ponders, his eyes flickering to the tall masculine figure behind the woman. The man shifts his weight onto one foot, clearly growing impatient._  
  
_"He's just mommy's friend." she smiles, "He's going to help mommy with something in the bedroom. Why don't you go play with Sammy? I'm sure he would love you see your new toy car."_  
  
_The child knows the drill by now. Mommy's friends do not like to be disturbed. He will never forget the time that he accidentally walked in on his mom and her friend wrestling on the bed. His little brother wasn't feeling well and the boy just wanted to help him feel better. The man did not appreciate the interruption and shoved the child out of the room and into the opposing wall._  
  
_"-But remember" she says, bringing a finger up to her lips, "I want you to play mommy's favourite game until I come get you."_  
  
_"Okay." the child smiles, turning on his heel. The man gives him a funny look and tugs the blonde woman into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them._  
  
_Sammy's cries echo from the other room as he awakens from his afternoon nap. The young boy approaches his brother's crib, reaching inside and cradling the infant in his tiny arms. He walks over to the dark closet on the other side of the room. The baby squirms in his grasp as he sits down, shutting the door closed behind him._  
  
_"It's okay, Sammy" the child coos, gently rocking the infant in his arms. Unsolicited moans erupt from the other room. "It'll all be over soon." the boy whispers, covering his brother's tiny ears with his hands and closing his eyes. He tries to focus on his breathing and the warm comfort of the infant cradled in his arms, waiting for his mother to open the closet and play with them. The boy catches the sunset tkhrough a silhouette under the door . The boys drown in darkness, awaiting the freedom that they would eventually receive._  
  
_***_  
Michaela's head rests on her former lover's chest. He is fast asleep. The warmth of him drapes over her like a thick blanket, soothing every muscle in her body. Her soft hair drapes over her face and her day-old vanilla perfume floods her senses. For the first time in a very long time, she is happy.  
  
"Good morning, beautiful." Quinn surprises her, tenderly stroking a stray piece of hair from in front of her face. She peers up at him, her eyes warm and flickering.   
  
"I miss you." she whispers, her fingers delicately stroking his chest. He leans down to place an innocent kiss on her soft lips. She responds by tugging his bottom lip as he pulls away. Quinn raises an eyebrow at her.   
  
"Round two?" she proposes, shifting to rub her foot against one of his legs.   
  
"What's gotten into you, Brooks?" Quinten chuckles, caressing her arm with the pad of his thumb.   
  
"Shut up and kiss me, Quinten." she teases, knowing the use of his real name irritates him. He raises an eyebrow at her as she sits up to straddle him. Her hair tickles his bare skin as their lips meet once again.  
  
Their cellphones vibrate in unison on the bedside table beside them and harsh reality rushes back as four words appear on each screen.  
  
_"Hannah Matthews is dead."_  
  
***  
  
Cas squints his eyes a few times turning his head to the side as he does. A fiery sensation burns in his throat and he struggles to breathe. His hands are restrained but he is too weak to fight against the tight bonds. As his eyes readjust to the atmosphere surrounding him, he quickly realizes that he is situated in complete darkness. He opens his mouth to scream but his cry for help is muffled by his sudden case of laryngitis. A guitar strums softly in the distance. He wonders why he is still breathing.  
  
Suddenly Castiel is blinded by light. His head buzzes and he sees stars.   
  
"Rise n' shine!" a deep texan drawl erupts from the darkness. Cas can feel his consciousness drifting. He blinks twice, his breathing slowing as his eyes focus on the tall figure in front of him.  
  
"Dean?" he manages to gasp.    
  
"Dean isn't he-re" the man chuckles in a sing song voice, twisting the bloodied knife between his fingers. Castiel struggles against the rope binding him to a wooden chair. The green eyed man takes a step back, shaking his head. "I wouldn't struggle if I were you."  
  
"De-" he starts, his throat too dry and sore to finish the word. His eyes catch a glimpse at the bloody knife Dean wields in his left hand. A familiar rock tune drones throughout the room.   
  
Castiel takes in the architecture of the entire room. The surrounding walls are made of chipped gray brick. He wonders if the weak structure will collapse in on them before Dean has the opportunity to slaughter him. An ancient work bench is positioned a few feet behind his captor. He is able to identify a few basic objects — a small radio, a toolbox, and a large fishing kit tucked away in the lowermost shelve. A dim light hangs from the dipping ceiling, allowing the room to be slightly illuminated by eerie figures and shadows. Castiel is able to fix his eyes on a rectangular object around one of the corner's of the room. It appears to be a wooden step belonging to a narrow staircase. He is unable to distinguish the layout as a specific room of a house — perhaps an aging basement or garage. Maybe Dean has taken him to an abandoned warehouse or dingy factory. An unmistakable odour of iron permanently stains the air. Castiel heart pounds fast against his ribcage and he begins to wonder if this is the end.  
  
"Would you give it a rest?" the man chuckles darkly. "Dean is gone. He doesn't care what happens to you." His feet carry him to the other side of the room, a corner just out of Castiel's vision. The heavy guitar invades Cas' senses as Dean tinkers with a nearby radio.   
  
_I don't hardly know her..._  
  
Castiel's eyes widen at the sight of the texan stranger's eyes. They are vacant and completely void of emotion.   
  
"De.....Please" Cas struggles as oxygen floods from his brain with every step Dean takes towards him.   
  
_But I think I could love her..._  


"This'll be over in a minute. You'll see." Dean smiles, leaning down to his level. Cas forcibly tugs against the restraints for a second time. "He should've just let you die in the crash."   
  
Castiel slows his breathing, desperately trying to assess the situation and save his life. All he wants to do is scream. His body, though beyond exhausted, urges to twist and turn and shriek out into the empty void. Of course it was Dean. He had allowed himself to fall for a man who murdered his former wife. He was drenched in Meg's blood and now suffocating in Hannah's. Castiel steadies his shaking hands, desperately trying to regain an ounce of control over his limp body.   
  
"She died screaming, you know." Dean smiles, bringing the tip of the knife up to press on Castiel's jugular, "While her husband was upstairs sleeping, she returned home from fucking another man and I killed her."  
  
"Dean" he forces, his throat ablaze with pain, "Wh-"   
  
"Someone's a drama queen." Dean chuckles, growing impatient with the younger man's stuttering. He pulls the knife away, "Never been choked before, Castiel? It's a complete rush of adrenaline. It's power. There's fire in your veins and for a brief moment, you are in control of everything. There's no blasphemous mother or father standing in the way of your actions. You are free." he leans in, his lips a few inches from Castiel's,  "You are God." His breath is warm on the blue eyed man's skin and Castiel winces. He clears his aching throat.

"Tell me about your mother."  


Dean's vacant eyes soften as his breathing slows. 

  _Crimson and clover..._    
  
"Oh please, this isn't some Norman Bates Psycho bullshit." he chuckles, a lump forming in his throat, "You think he has some deep-seated mommy issues that cause him to kill? I already told you, Dean is gone." He forces the last word, gripping onto Castiel's arms. "I kill because I like it, because it's fun." A dark smirk etches across Castiel's face and he leans forward, nearly butting heads with Dean.   
  
"Then why didn't you kill me." he laughs, finally able to fight the rawness of his throat.  
  
_Over and over..._

"Because-" Dean stutters, unsure of how to respond. He pauses, recollecting his thoughts and walking over towards the work bench. He pours a liquid substance on a stark white cloth before returning. He shakes his head, clearly disgusted,  "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think that the mere mention of my vile abomination of a mother will reduce me to tears and you'll be able to reach Dean? You must be brain-dead. How many times do I have to say it, Dean is GONE. You won't be able to save him. And just so we're clear, this ain't some Shakespearean lovey-dovey bullshit! You won't catch me blowing my brains out anytime soon because of guilt. I feel none of it. Remorse is as foreign to me as love. If you want me to come to some profound realization that I love you, then you're demented! I don't love you. And if you believe that I do, then you, Castiel, are the psychotic one." In a single movement, Dean presses the cloth to Castiel's face and the world fades to black.


	13. Shadow in the Night

The first thing that catches her eye is her colleagues lining the suburban area with obnoxious yellow tape. Her head is pounding too loudly for her to decipher what Quinn had been trying to say to her. If she had been in a stable state of mind, she would drown in embarrassment over the fact that she had been wearing yesterday's clothes. Quinn reaches towards her arm but she slips away from his comforting grasp. Her posture is shaky and she struggles to keep the world in focus. Her rather sporadic determination directs her forwards. Despite the frantic shouts erupting from her former lover behind her, Michaela sprints forwards towards her home.  
  
Balthazar Cross is the first one to notice the fragile detective. It was unusual for Michaela to get emotional while at a crime scene and her personal connection to the victim was now obvious. The Lieutenant approaches Michaela with his brows furrowed together and ugly crease marks plastered across his forehead.   
  
"Agent Brooks?" he asks, "Are you alright?" Michaela remains mute as her eyes search her apartment for her roommates comatose body.   
  
"W-" she starts, shaking her head as an attempt to steady herself, "Where is the victim?" Michaela gulps.   
  
"Kitchen" Balthazar breathes, "Desmond is there now, taking photos and analyzing the blood spatter." Michaela nods, taking a shaky breath before walking past the Lieutenant and into her kitchen. The heels of her shoes echo against the beige kitchen tile. The sight in front of her is all too familiar and her head is swimming.   
  
"There you are!" a friendly voice crosses the room, "I've been trying to contact you all night!"   
  
"What happened?" Michaela asks, her voice an octave higher than a whisper.  
  
"She put up a hell of a fight" the analyst sighs, "The button of her shorts are undone but theres no sign of sexual assault from what I can tell. Whatever went on between the two of them was clearly consensual. The fatal wound is the laceration around her jugular and because of that I thought this might not be our guy. But look here, around her neck. It's slightly bruised, indicating that the Strangler was not able to control her as he did the others. I think he grew frustrated and got sloppy. But that isn't even the most exciting part!"   
  
She feels sick. Her eyes remain fixed on the lifeless corpse of her closest friend. Hannah's bright blue eyes have faded to a dull gray. The dry blood circling her neck painted her mere shell of a body an unwanted shade of crimson. Her hands were hung beside her on the kitchen floor, as if she had been discarded, just tossed onto the ground as if she were less than a human being. She was a rag-doll abandoned by her puppet master. An object. A toy to a man who felt completely and utterly in control of her life. She had been nothing to him. Michaela closes her eyes for a moment, the breath in her throat hitching as she does so.   
  
"Where is she?" Quinn storms into the apartment, his face red and blotchy. The lieutenant's eyes widen at the intensity of the younger man's voice. "Michaela! Where is she?"   
  
"There's no need to raise your voice at me, she's in the kitchen with the victim."  
  
"You idiot." Quinn scoffs. beginning to march towards the other room, "The victim is her roommate!" Balthazar follows close behind him.  
  
Michaela's lips are trembling and she notices a sudden wetness on face. When she had been transferred back to Boston to work this case, she had never imagined that her closest friend would be caught in the crossfire. A friend who held such a long and prosperous life ahead of her was gone because some lunatic had felt bored. She should have been home. If she had been, maybe her friend would still be breathing. Home — a place of comfort and safety, where she often spent her days binging fictional television programs and laughing about ridiculous reality TV shows with Hannah. Her home had been left in shambles and she finds herself paralyzed. The strong aroma of Giorgio Armani forces her to open her eyes again.   
  
"Michaela.." Quinten offers, regretting the fact that he had not forced the stubborn brunette to stay at his apartment while they investigated the crime scene that she also calls home.   
  
"I should've been there." Michaela whispers, "It should have been me."  
  
"Don't say that." Quinn replies from behind, the tone of his voice matching hers, "Please don't say that."  
  
A single tear that had been lingering at the corner of one of her eye rolls down her cheek. She had been holding it back since the moment she entered the room, desperately trying to keep her eyes open. When her eyes are forced shut she can no longer control her emotions. Quinn says something else to her but she doesn't hear it. The noises circulating throughout the room are distant now. Desmond stands, concerned with how pale her face has become. Voices are fading as her connection to reality does. There are black dots invading her sight and she feels as if she were on some cruel carnival ride. Her skin is hot as Quinn places a hand on her lower back to steady her. Just as she feels the nausea building, she falls. 

Quinn scrambles to catch her before her head collides with the hard kitchen tile. He guides her into the safety of his arms, studying her face with wounded eyes. The agent brings a trembling hand up to brush a stray strand of hair from Michaela's damp cheek before bowing his head. Desmond scrambles to the tap, dabbing a nearby cloth with cold water before handing it to Quinn. He nods at the analyst. Although they have never properly interacted with each other or even made an effort to do so, the unspoken notion of gratitude and understanding radiates between them. Quinn presses the cloth onto Michaela's clammy forehead. As Desmond stands, he notices the tragic irony of the situation. The scene before him was a cinematic masterpiece crafted by the twisted aesthetic of a particularly melancholic vision that could only be motivated by immense feelings of despair, morbidity, and gloom. The two woman lay side by side  — one stained by death and the other by grief. Although the brunette's chest shows a visual sign of life, a dramatic shift has taken place that will be nearly impossible to recover from. As Quinn cradles the comatose body close to his heart, he comes to a similar realization. Michaela is far from a narcissistic, pretentious person. She holds relationships of all varieties to the upmost importance. The reality of the situation is that while the brunette should take no blame for the murder, she certainly was going to. She had been reconnecting, selfishly, with an old lover while her best friend was being manipulated and slaughtered like a wild hog. She had been happy while Hannah helplessly battled for her life and failed. The sight of such a strong, independent, and selfless woman so defenseless and feeble shatters his heart.   
  
***  
  
The world is blank to her. She feels nothing except for a cooling sensation that rests on her forehead. Beneath her body is soft, gentle. She wonders if she is floating on a cloud. Her fingers twitch first, searching for the mysterious source of comfort. There's something delicately stroking her right arm. She searches for the light but cannot find it. It seems far away, distant and beyond her reach. Her skin is stained with an old vanilla perfume she recognizes, but the cloud-like substance her body rests on smells like someone else. She ponders how easy it would be to let herself go. All she would have to do is let herself slip away. Her head is pounding and she feels warm. She's too close now and the opportunity has passed. Her breath comes in shallow and weak. The silky fabric rests under her fragile grasp.  When her eyes open everything is blurry. She recognizes the pale ceiling first, then she turns her head to study the room. The walls are closing in around her and she can't breathe.   
  
"Mykie?" a disembodied voice speaks. She twists her head to find the source. His tone is brittle. She peers up to study his eyes and finds them to be cloudy. Then it comes crashing back to her like waves on an unwanted shore. "Are you comfortable?" Michaela licks her lips and clears her throat as she finds her eyes fixed on an old photograph across the room. Her city has become a corpse-littered battlefield, a sort of twisted hunting ground for the Boston Strangler, and there was no way in hell Michaela was going to give this psychopath the chance to flee.   
  
"Has Desmond identified who the killer is yet?" she asks, her eyes refusing to meet his.   
  
"Michaela-" Quinn starts, quickly cut off by the woman.  
  
"Quinten, I want to be involved in this case." she demands, blinking to meet his gaze. Her eyes are fiery and determined. Quinn flinches at the use of his full name. " I want to catch the bastard who did this. I want him to rot in a cell for the rest of his life."  
  
"We will." he reassures, tangling his fingers with hers and bringing her hand up to his lips. Quinn pressures a tender kiss onto the back of her hand, "But you need to give yourself some time."  
  
"For what?" she scoffs, ripping her hand away from him, "To sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing while that monster terrorizes this city? _My_ city?!?"  
  
"You just suffered a terrible loss, Michaela. You need time to grieve." he stresses, raising his voice a little.   
  
"I need to be involved in this case. I will be. Whether you approve or not." she states, glaring at him, "When did you start caring again?"   
  
"I never stopped." he sighs, his eyes staring at the floor.   
  
"I do not belong to you, Quinten." she sneers, well aware that her choice of words will be damaging to him. She removes the cold cloth from her forehead and passes it to him before sitting up.  "Is this your shirt?" she asks, fingering the fabric covering her chest.  
  
"Your blouse had blood stains on it." he states, no longer treating her as fragile, "I thought it would be nice if you woke up in clean clothing." His words mimic the same effect of a sharp jab to Michaela's chest. She realizes she has been abusing him with her own harsh words while he had been caring for her.   
  
"I'm sorry, Quinn." she admits in a small voice, "I can't let myself break, not now. I need this guy behind bars before I can let myself sit down and cry about someone who is never coming back." Her skin feels clammy as her face falls to study her fingers.   
  
"Hey" Quinn mumbles, his voice smooth and soothing. He props himself up on the bed next to her and places a careful arm to cradle her shoulders. She leans into him. "I don't want this vendetta to destroy you. We will catch him, and I will be here for you every second of the way."   
  
"Promise?" she forces her lips upwards into a weak smile.  
  
"Always." he replies, placing a tender kiss on the brunette's forehead as they both settle into the comfortable silence of the room.  
  
***  
The Lieutenant watches as Anna Milton twirls a bright red pen between her fingers. There was something curious about the young agent that always drew him to her. Desmond Wolfe waits at the front of the wide room, his feet standing firm. He has a piece of paper in his hand. Balthazar taps his foot, growing more annoyed with the agents who had taken over his case by every passing second. The surrounding atmosphere remains a photograph — silent and unmoving — until the uneven sound of high heels clicking against the station tile echoes in the distance. Each individual wearing a blue uniform shift to investigate the noise. A brunette swings open the glass door and is met by silence.   
  
"Agent Brooks?" Lieutenant Cross asks, nearly jumping out of her seat, "You're too close to this case now to be involved." Michaela doesn't even flinch. She proceeds forwards, confronting the dazed man head-on.   
  
"Lieutenant, " Michaela sighs, her disheveled hair tickling her cheeks. She had managed to change into clean clothing but did not show the same attention for her tousled hair and smeared makeup, "This may be your jurisdiction but make no mistake, you hold no authority over me."  
  
"Excuse me?" the Lieutenant chuckles, closing the distance between himself and the snarky agent, "This is still my case. The Strangler murdered your roommate and there's no way in hell you are going to continue to work-" Quinten follows behind her, lingering at the glass door.   
  
"Listen to me, " she cuts him off mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes, "My roommate is dead and am I upset? Yes. But I am not some emotionally-unstable little girl, I am a fucking F.B.I agent. I know when to put my feelings aside to get the job done. Our main concern here is catching the deranged lunatic currently terrorizing the city, so don't you dare worry about me being some loose cannon. I can handle myself." Lieutenant Cross scoffs but the brunette does not give him a chance to respond. She tears her gaze away from him, crossing the room towards the forensic analyst. Balthazar eyes agent Rivers but only receives a shrug in return. 

"Go ahead, Desmond." Michaela commands. He stares across the room at Anna Milton, whose eyes burn a hole in the back of the brunette's head.   
  
"Oh uh..." Desmond starts, watching as Quinten Rivers takes a seat next to Michaela on a nearby desk, "The blood we found under Casey Bates' fingernails match up with a ghost."   
  
"A ghost?" Michela scoffs.  
  
"Well...he's legally dead." Desmond starts, pressing a button that causes the giant screen behind him to light up with an image, "Dean Winchester, committed suicide at a mental institution when he was 16 years old. Maybe the killer is playing some sort of trick on us. Maybe to serve as a distraction? Something in his life must've changed for him to have changed his method...stabbing suggests a personal connection...slitting the throat even more so..." the analyst babbles on. The Lieutenant opens his mouth to speak but is cut-off by Michaela. His blood begins to boil as she speaks.  
  
"Wait." the brunette gasps, recalling the deep texan drawl and piercing green eyes of a man who had introduced himself to her a few weeks prior, "You've got to be kidding me. Dean Winchester lives across the street from me." her breathing grows heavy and uneven as she stands and marches towards the exit, "We've got to get back to the crime scene. That son of a bitch has been hiding under our noses this entire fucking time."    
  
Multiple police cars race back to the crime scene. Quinn had refused to let Michaela drive — despite her constant arguing and rather manipulative tactics. The brunette is the first one out of the car. She tosses all procedure and precaution to the wind as she sprints up to the familiar door. Unlike once before, the space no longer feels welcoming to her. Michaela feels like she is suffocating. Her world is falling down around her and she has this man — this beast — to thank. She fingers the gun resting by her hip and brings a leg up, forcing her foot forward into the door until it flies off of the hinges. Quinten is amazed that she is able to do it in heels.  
  
"Agent Brooks!" Lieutenant Cross screams across the quiet parking lot as he watches the young agent in complete horror. Quinten falls to her side inside the house. Aside from a large bloodstain in the entranceway and a few pieces of furniture that had been forcibly turned over, they are left with a wide vacancy and no indication of where the Boston Strangler was headed. Desmond was right to call him a ghost. He was a shadow in the night that no one noticed until it was too late. 


	14. Let's Play a Game

They had been the picture of perfection. The image of the flawless, typical white picket fence family admired by others only on film. Their house was a dark shade of gray with a perfect peaked roof that extended upwards towards the sky. The season was autumn, and clouds were flooding the sky, shielding the earth from the sun. The neighbourhood was quiet aside from the rustling of trees as the leaves began to change colour and gracefully fall onto the soil below. A young boy returns home from a long day at school, intending to flop his aching body down on his mattress and play some video games. The interior atmosphere of the perfect suburban home had been louder than usual these days. When the boy steps through the door, he is met by eery silence.   
  
"Dad?" he calls out, knowing that his mother would soon return home from one of her many sexual trysts. There is no response and the house remains an image of perfection. The boy ventures upstairs and tosses his backpack to the floor. His 10 year old brother follows him. The younger boy's expression is fixed, blank and staring off into the distance.  
  
"Dean" the brunette whispers, "I think someone is in the house." The other boy furrows his eyebrows together, meeting his young brother's gaze.   
  
"Why would you think that?" he asks, noticing that the younger boy's right hand has began to twitch by his side.   
  
"There was a loud bang." his brother whimpers, "It came from mom and dad's room. It wasn't mom either, it sounded like a firework."   
  
Dean had been in this position before. His younger brother had come running to him voicing concern about loud shouting he had heard. He had been convinced that their mother was being attacked by someone. Their father had been away at the time, travelling on a business trip, so the elder of the two boys had decided to investigate. He instructed his younger brother to hide in  a closet. Dean had swung open the door to his parent's bedroom, not really sure how he was going to fend off the predator and protect his mother. His fists were balled by his side, ready to use them to fight the monster and protect his family. He was only 8 years old at the time but he felt much older. His innocent eyes were immediately met with a man pinning his mother down onto his parents' bed. Her face appeared to be twisted in some expression that he could only determine to be pain. Dean screamed, running forwards towards the stranger and hitting him in the face with one of his tiny fists.   
  
"Get off of her!" he yelled, his voice breaking.   
  
"Dean!" his mother yelled, hugging the bedsheets up to her exposed body "Dean, it's alright. I'm okay!" Her pale cheeks looked flushed. The stranger stood hovering over the young boy, a cold vacancy in his eyes. With a smirk, he shoved Dean backwards into the hallway. He fell backwards into the side of the staircase but his mother had taken no notice to her son, whose forehead was now lined with a dark crimson colour. Dean watched, his forehead throbbing, as the naked man closed the door and his mother disappeared from his view. His younger brother came running to his side and asked what happened. He had told him that their mother was fine and he had tripped and hit his head. Dean isolated himself in his room and did not emerge until his father returned home the following day. He figured that his mother was too preoccupied to notice that he had skipped a day of school, and would feign illness if she did. The next night Dean refused to eat dinner,explaining that his lack of appetite came from the phantom illness, rather than witnessing his mother engage in the act of sin with another man. A part of him was disgusted by her and relieved that she was now damned to hell. The other part of him explained the deep gash on his forehead to have been a result of his own idiotic clumsiness.   
  
Now Dean was sighing, wondering if the bang that his brother had heard was one of their mother's twisted games. Nevertheless, he marches out into the long hallway and raps his fist three times against the familiar wooden door. He knows something is wrong when it creeps open slightly. Dean tiptoes across the hardwood floor, alarmed to find the bedroom completely empty.   
  
"Mom?" he calls out, "Dad?" There is no response. He remembers the violent exchange of words between the two from the previous night and grows worried.   
  
His father had returned home early from a business trip and caught their mother in a compromising position in their bedroom. She announced that she was going to leave him and he stormed out of the house and drowned his sorrows at the local bar. When he returned, he had been drunk and slurring about how much of a fool he had been to marry such an unfaithful slut. He called her scum and a whore, and a bunch of other words that Sammy had been far too young to hear.   
  
The elder brother examines the room and notices faint red marks staining the walls. He rounds the corner and freezes. His gaze is met with his father's body, laying limp next to a gun and drenched in a pool of his own blood. Dean notices his younger brother behind him and races to cover his eyes. His brother sobs as Dean hugs him closer to his body, his eyes unable to leave the sight in front of them. He guides his brother out of the room before grabbing his shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes. The faint sound of a door opening and closing can be heard in the distance.  
  
"I want you to go to my room, grab the phone and dial 9-1-1. Tell them that you heard a loud bang and think that someone is in the house. I'll stay here and try to find whoever did this." Dean lies, listening to his mother's high heels clicking against the tiles downstairs, "Do you understand?" The younger brother nods back at him, "Go!" he commands, releasing the boy's shoulders and watching him disappear into another room across the hall.   
  
Dean marches down the stairs and grabs his mother by the arm.   
  
"Dean?" she asks, "What are you doing?" The older boy ignores her, tugging her back up the stairs and into her bedroom. A voice in his head tells him that she needs to pay. He forcibly pulls his mother through the room until her eyes meet her husband's dead, gray corpse drowning in blood on the floor next to the bed.   
  
"Holy shit." his mother gasps.   
  
"You did this." Dean glares up at her, releasing her arm.   
  
"Dean I-"   
  
"You killed him." Dean states, his voice growing rasping and louder, "You killed my father because you couldn't keep your fucking legs shut." His mother brings a hand up, throwing it into Dean's cheek.  
  
"How dare you speak to me like that." she growls.   
  
 _She needs to die._ The voice in his head screams at him. _You need to kill her.  
_  
"You filthy bitch!" Dean yells, pushing his mother backwards onto the bed, "You tore this family apart!" He straddles her frail body, shoving his hands upwards to wrap around her throat. Her eyes widen, "How many men fucked you in this bed? In your marital bed? In our house?" He doesn't give her a chance to respond but instead grits his teeth together and leans closer to her face, "How many times have you brought strange men into this home where your children sleep?" his hot breath invades her face. She brings her nails up, clawing at her son's hands. "How many times have you left your sons alone at night? You should have been the one to comfort Sammy when he has a nightmare or wakes up with a fever. You're supposed to be our mother but you're never fucking there for any of us!" He watches, his face hot, as the blood drains from her delicate facial features and she grows pale, "Dad was good to you. He was good to us! He never hit you, he never lay a finger on his sons!" he scoffs, "But you weren't happy enough. You had it all — the stupid family, the faithful husband, the white picket fence life — but that was never enough for you."  
  
"Ple-" she pleads, her airway blocked by her son's rough hand.   
  
"You were never apart of this family. Not really, " he growls, something primal and animalistic possessing his body, "We've been doing fine without you." The boy releases his mother's neck and she breathes a sigh of relief. He grabs a fistful of her long blonde hair and tugs her onto the ground beside his now deceased father. She lands with a thud, knowing that if she survives she will be covered in bruises from the fall. She screws her eyes shut and her breathing grows heavy.   
  
"You are weak!" he screams only inches away from her face. Gathering her strength, his mother crawls up onto her elbows, skittering across the smooth surface in an attempt to escape her son. Dean grabs her by the waist as she begins to stand, tossing her back down onto the hardwood floor. He straddles her and eyes the gun resting by his father's side, "I hate you." he sneers through gritted teeth, putting an unusual amount of emphasis on every word. Dean has lost control of his body now but the adrenaline coursing though his veins urges him to continue. He notices the fear dulling her green eyes. They were identical to his and the only part of her that truly convinced him that they were related, "Look at you now, a fucking coward." he laughs, "You made me into this."  
  
"Dean." she gulps, her throat burning, "You're not a monster." He chuckles, a dark throaty chuckle that sounded inhuman. Dean lunges forwards to pry the gun from his father's cold hands. His weight remains evenly distributed on his squirming mother. She attempts to scream. Dean shifts to put his entire body weight on her lungs, making it impossible for her to let more than a whimper escape her lips. Then he stands, backing away from his mother's weak body. He aims the gun at his head and etches a malicious smile across his face.   
  
"Sammy hide!" Dean yells, his eyes never leaving his mother, "Mom has a gun! Hide!" The noise of a door slamming shut and heavy footsteps scampering to safety echoes in the distance. "What do you think, mom?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, "Should I pull the trigger so you can continue spreading your legs for anything that breathes?" She slowly stands, failing to utter a single word. "Dad shot himself in the brain because you betrayed him. Should I do the same and make things a whole lot easier for you?" she's shaking now, "Answer me!"   
  
"D-Dean...I lo...ve you-" she starts, her searing throat ensuring she can only speak in broken sentences.  
  
"Love doesn't mean shit if you're never there for us." he scoffs, "Love is nothing but a bullet to the head."   
  
 _Kill her._ The voice in his head grows stronger now, more demanding. It is impossible to ignore. Dean's mother raises her hands in the air, taking careful steps towards her eldest son. He turns, walking back towards his lifeless father, "It's a shame dad isn't still alive to do this himself." Dean whispers loud enough for both of them to hear. Her eyes widen and she turns to run, Dean's body whips around and aims the gun at her. He pulls the trigger and watches as she collapses, blood draining from the fresh wound in the center of her chest. She's gasping for air as Dean brings the gun down to the fabric of his shirt, wiping any evidence of his involvement. He places it back in his father's hand. His mother squirms, trying to drag her body towards the hallway. Dean notices and marches towards her. Without staining himself with the offensive crimson colour, he reaches down and grabs his mother by the neck, watching as her lungs fail to fill and deflate. Dean smiles over her.   
  
"This is what you deserve." he explains, squeezing her neck tighter, "You are going to rot in hell." His mother's eyes widen as they notice the sudden vacancy in Dean's gaze. She fails to recognize the creature above her as her son. He has become possessed, an abomination whose sole purpose was punishment. She was going to die. Dean's head is pounding. This was his mother, the woman who gave him life. He so badly yearned to stop — to release his mother's neck from his tight grip and call an ambulance, he's aware that she can still be saved. The voices in his head refuse to allow him, echoing thoughts of betrayal, disloyalty, and neglect. Dean examines his mother's expression, watching as the light fades from her eyes and she falls limp.   
  
Sirens echo in the distance and the eldest son scrambles to place the gun in his deceased father's hand and sprints across the hallway to where his brother is crouched, teary eyed and hiding in a closet. He opens the door and cradles his younger sibling in his arms. The child is visibly shaking and Dean mimics his actions. Sam flinches as yelling erupts below him followed by the loud bang of the front door being kicked open.  
  
"It's alright, Sammy" Dean whispers, "I'll do all the talking okay? All you have to say is that you heard mommy and daddy yelling at each other and then a loud noise, alright?" He peers down at his trembling brother, catching a quick nod, "If they ask you, you tell them that mommy and daddy have been fighting for days now." Dean strokes his brother's hair tenderly, rubbing his back with his other hand. "You and I hid in the closet the entire time."  
  
"Are they dead?' the child whimpers. He is vulnerable and trusting of the eldest.   
  
"I don't know" Dean lies, preparing himself to confront the police, "I left the room before the shot went off. I'm glad you called the cops, Sammy. That was really brave."  
  
The closet door is swung open by a man holding a gun. He lowers it and calls for backup as he notices the frail children. A feeling of absolute content washes over Dean.   
  
"It's alright." the young officer assures them, "You can come out now."  
  
"We heard a loud bang." Dean whimpers, Sam remains silent in his arms. "Was someone in the house? Was it one of mommy's friends?"   
  
"We don't know yet." the officer sighs, "Come on out of there." A pretty brunette appears beside him, a warm smile plastered across her face.   
  
"Hey there, my name's Elena." she reaches out towards the children. "You're safe, don't worry." Sammy walks over and grabs her hand, Dean does the same, ensuring to appear vulnerable and terrified of the current situation. "We're going to go for a fun little ride down to the station and then we'll play some games together, sound good?" Dean nearly laughs. He finds the whole ordeal to be hysterical. There was something oddly exhilarating  about the thrill of getting away with murdering the woman who brought him into this world.  Of course, he'll play along. He'll behave and play the part of the traumatized young son who just lost both of his parents. Internally, he was more alive than ever before. As he walks down the long staircase, he peers back at his parents' bedroom and the corner of his lip twitches upwards into a smirk. He knew that this was the start of something much bigger. The world was going to play his game whether they knew it or not. His crusade had officially begun.


	15. Dance of the Damned

"He doesn't love you." the voice comes to Castiel in a multitude of whispers. Somewhere far off in the distance, crawling around the most hidden part of his head. The words are parasitic and make his skin crawl. He wonders what unforsaken force had led him to this very moment. "He loves the idea of you." The man's eyes twist and turn beneath his eyelids, yearning for them to open. They remain shut. "You are beauty, youth, and innocence. Yet, you are the pinnacle of lust and desire, sin in it's purest form. But you are not the first. You are far from the first." Castiel's senses are clouded by the harsh chemical as the monster echoes syllable after syllable into his ears. "You can wake up now, I know you can hear me. Open your eyes." 

He forces his eyes open slowly, the world returning to him as a blur. The green-eyed man is staring at him, his gaze fixed on his own tired blue eyes. 

"Dean" he struggles, "I know you're there. Please." Castiel's body feels ten times heavier and his bones fall limp. He notices that the restraints around his arms have disappeared. Dean leans closer to his face, his eyes aflame with desire. 

"You're beautiful, you know that? A classic handsome." Dean's voice deepens. "Dean might even argue that you're as pretty as his first love." Castiel's breathing grows shallow. "I wonder if you're as feisty as she was too." In one swift motion, Dean leans forward, forcibly planting his lips onto Cas'. 

Castiel's eyes grow wide, the unexpected notion of desire startling him. He would be lying if he said the warmth of the other man's lips were anything but comforting on his own. Dean takes gentle hold of Castiel's lower lip, tugging on it with his teeth ever so slightly. Castiel returns the kiss for a moment or two, his lust for the green-eyed man clearly blinding his judgement. Dean's tongue traces along to outline of his lower lip, yearning for entrance. Castiel parts his lips slightly, allowing the kiss to deepen. 

Dean is practically straddling the other man now. He grins into Castiel's mouth, the kiss growing sloppy and desperate. Cas presses his lips harder into Dean's, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and biting down hard. Dean gasps, staggering backwards as he brings his hand up to his torn crimson lip. 

"You like it rough, huh?" the man smirks. 

Castiel springs forward, no longer bound by the harsh restraints or fixed to the uncomfortable wooden chair. He brings his hand up and slaps Dean across the face. His freedom is close now as he stumbles towards the exit. He rounds the corner of the dimly illuminated basement, his vision still slightly disoriented. 

"Cas?" a familiar voice echoes from a few feet behind him, "Where are we?" Castiel eyes the exit — a narrow wooden staircase extending upwards, leading to a small door. "Did I hurt you?" The captive freezes, slowing his motions as he recognizes Dean's presence in the room. The violent noise of skin colliding into skin ricochets throughout the narrow basement as Dean repeatedly strikes himself in the head. Castiel turns his head, one hand remaining fixed on the railing adjacent to the staircase. 

"Dean?" he questions, raising one of his eyebrows. Dean becomes still, he lowers his palms from his forehead. His temples are pounding from where they had been struck. 

"Cas please..." Dean begs, a single tear escaping from the corner of his left eye and beginning to roll down his cheek. "Kill me." 

"What?" Castiel is quick to turn on his heel and face the other man in the room.

"Just run away and never look back." Dean's voice was soft now — broken. The monster controlling him had vanished, leaving a cold shell of confusion and remorse behind. Castiel studies his eyes as they glisten in the dimly lit room. There are tears resting at the corners of his eyes. 

"Let me help you." Cas whispers, his throat still raw from the pressure of Dean's rough hands. He takes a few steps closer to the man and away from the staircase. Castiel places a cautious hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean's eyes fixate on the unfinished basement floor beneath them, unable to speak. Slowly, he lifts his head. A smirk plays at the corner of his lips as his eyes darken. Dean clicks his tongue a few times, snickering at the younger man.

"Let me help you!" Dean mimics, mocking the blue eyed man's earlier tone. "Castiel, Castiel, Castiel...." the older of the pair trails off, his voice growing louder with every repetition of the word, "I'm not the one who needs help." 

Dean grips onto the palm of Castiel's hand, yanking it off of his shoulder while the younger man's head falls forward. He swings an elbow across Castiel's face. Cas staggers back. 

"Are man tears and a few lingering looks really all it takes to fool you?" Dean steps forward, gritting his teeth together. He grips the fabric of the trench coat the man was wearing, slamming his right knee upwards into Castiel's stomach. Cas cries out in pain, desperately searching for an exit strategy. His body is limp. Dean shoves him across the room and his back collides with the staircase behind him. Dean towers over him, straddling Castiel's body. He pushes him into the wall, wrapping his fingers around his throat and squeezing. Cas gasps for air, clawing at Dean's fingers as his lungs begin to burn. 

"Dean...don't," he croaks, "please..." Dean scrapes and claws at his body, screaming and pleading for the abomination to spare him. The fighting is enough to distract the beast as he releases Castiel from his grasp, struggling to remain in control of the body. Cas uses this opportunity and staggers to his feet. The world is a blur to him but he doesn't care. He nearly trips as he hobbles up the old staircase and ponders for a moment what would happen if he stayed. Cas quickly dismisses the thought, never glancing back as he disappears from the all-too alluring texan stranger's view.

***  
"Dean frickin' Winchester" Michaela huffs, closing her eyes and running shaky hands through her hair. Quinten sits beside her at the desk, examining her defeated posture and yearning to comfort her. Images of black and white are scattered around them —mostly files. Michaela's foot taps anxiously as she peers across the table at Desmond. She refuses to allow the monster to remain just another unsolved case. The bastard needs to pay for his crimes. 

"I spoke with a few nurses from the hospital" Balthazar confirms, shuffling a few pieces of paper in his hands before moving to sit beside Michaela, "One of them was able to send me his file." 

"And?" she asks. 

"And this guy is seriously something else." Anna huffs as she approaches the group, passing a copy of the document around the table. 

"Mr. Dean Winchester. Admitted as a patient of the Angel Peaks psychiatric hospital for psychotic depression shortly after his father killed his mother and shot himself in the head — at least that's what the records say." Michaela raises an eyebrow at Balthazar. "His nurse remembers periodic fits of amnesia and lost time. She described Dean Winchester to have been an angel one moment and the devil the next. He would charm and amaze her one minute and then terrify her." 

"And no one thought to look further into his diagnosis?" Quinten questions. 

"The kid was 15 and suicidal. He refused to eat or sleep most days but was full of life the next. The doctors had him under close watch and his nurse confirmed that at one point he was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. The diagnosis was documented, but no longer exists." Balthazar sighs, taking a breath, "About two years into his stay, there was a fire at the hospital that killed many patients. The point of origin? D-"

"Let me take a wild guess — Dean Winchester's room?" Michaela sighs. 

"Bingo." Lieutenant Cross nods, placing the folder in front of him. 

"So what the hell is his endgame here? Faking his own death just to flee and kill people?" Quinten chimes in. 

"Now would be a good time to mention that I was able to get a hold of Elena — the police officers who dealt with his parents' murder-suicide." Anna smiles, leaning onto her elbows as if she were gossiping about some high school crush with her friends, "She told me that she found Dean and his brother curled up in a closet and shaking. They both explained how they had heard their parents arguing followed by a loud bang."

"Isn't that exactly what the police report said?" Michaela raises an eyebrow at the novice detective. 

"Not exactly. Their stories were exactly the same except for the fact that the younger brother slipped up and mentioned how Dean was trying to protect him from 'someone bad in the house'."

"And what does that prove?" Michaela scoffs. 

"It proves that Dean and his younger brother's recollection of the event were exactly the same except for the part about there being a possible intruder in the house. The younger brother hinted at the fact that Dean may have left the closet momentarily." Anna explains, "Think about it — these two kids had absent parents. While their father was constantly working, their mother brought strange men into the house and forced her children to stay in a closet while she slept with them." 

"So what, the guy has mommy issues?" Quinten asks. 

"His mother was strangled to death." Anna concludes, "Sound familiar?" 

"Okay so this guy — one of his personalities at least — may not even be aware of what he is doing. He kills both men and women who have been unfaithful to their spouses. He's confident and believes himself to be some type of vigilante for the cheated. Desmond, we need to speak with his brother. Can you find his address?" Lieutenant Cross asks.

"On it." Desmond nods, typing furiously at the keyboard in front of him. 

Michaela shakes her head, standing up to leave the room. Quinten glances up at her as she disappears down the hall. He decides to follow her, stopping at the door frame of their temporary office and peering up at her. She senses his presence. 

"He's going to get away with this, isn't he?" Micheala murmurs, her back to him. She stares blankly at the gray wall in front of her, littered with crime scene photos.Hannah's has yet to be posted.

"Mykie..." Quinten trails off, shutting the door behind him as he takes a few steps towards her frail figure. 

"He was right under my nose the entire time" she sighs, her posture remaining unfixed, "She would still be alive if-" 

"Mykie don't do this to yourself." Quinten interrupts her, "You can't do this to yourself. the guilt will eat you alive." 

"But it's all my fault." she repeats, her tone remaining quiet. 

"What can I do?" Quinten offers, placing a soft hand on Michaela's back. 

"Quinn..." this time her voice breaks as she turns to face him, her eyes glossy from crying. He reaches towards her, cradling her in his arms. She fits firmly against his chest, softly sobbing into his shoulder. 

"I will find this guy and make sure Hannah's death is avenged. I'm going to do it for you, even if it kills me." Quinten promises. Michaela pulls away, locking eyes with the man she loves. 

"No." she pleads, "I can't lose you, Quinn...not again." 

"You won't." he vows, gently cradling her face in his hands. He uses his thumbs to wipe away the few stray tears that had escaped her eyes, "I love you." he whispers. 

The three words don't even phase Michaela.

"I love you too, Quinn...I never stopped." She repeats. Quinten presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and taking in her words. He had never seen her so vulnerable — so broken. She presses her lips to his, sharing a soft and lingering kiss before she falls back into his arms. He presses his lips to her forehead, hugging her body close to his as if shielding her from the brutal harshness of reality. "Please don't leave me..." she repeats.

"Never." he breathes into her hair. In that moment, Quinn realizes how hopelessly in love with her he has fallen...again. This time, he vows to be good to her. He will find the son of a bitch who murdered her friend, and he will stop him...whatever it takes.

Quinn drives her home that night. He offers to stay over, but she pleads for a little space to grieve, promising to go straight to sleep once she arrives home. He argues with her, unsure if leaving her alone would be the best idea. Michaela's determination and independence convince him otherwise. 

Instead, he opts to take a brief visit to a bar within walking distance from his house. The cool night air is refreshing as it blows against the features of his face. The streets are vacant, aside from a few drunken strangers laughing as they pass and a young couple. Quinten watches as the boy covers the shivering girl with his jacket. A warm glow illuminates her face as she smiles, the gleam in her eyes reminding him of Michaela's when they had first started dating. 

She had been a few years younger then. Fresh out of the academy and eager to help people. He had fallen for her instantly. She was intense — in a good way. He found her independence attractive — the way she followed her instincts and always got the job done. She was determined and alive. He would watch her sift through endless files and paperwork, tapping her pen between two fingers. Her eyes danced with life — the kind that most people were jealous of. She never let a case defeat her, pressing her emotions to the side in order to solve a case. But she was never emotionless either. In this line of work, it was all too easy to get caught up in the moment and become some kind of robot — completely drained and void of life. Michaela was the polar opposite. 

She had been, at least. 

Quinten walks into the bar, his head spinning. The bartender does not notice him at first as her hand in buried in a glass, cleaning it with a white cloth. Quinten plops down onto an empty bar stool, oblivious to everything but the twenty-five ounce bottle of whiskey on the bottom shelf calling his name. Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive hums softly in the background.

"Agent!" the bartender exclaims, placing the empty glass she was cleaning down in front of him. 

"Not tonight. Just Quinn," he smiles at the woman, "I'm off the clock." 

"Well, Quinn...what'll it be?" she asks, draping the cloth over her right shoulder and leaning closer to him. 

"Shot of whiskey, please." he sighs, pulling out his phone to make sure Michaela got in okay. 

"Coming up." she smiles, turning her back from him to prepare the drink. He puts his phone back in his pocket, sighing as the bartender returns. Shes pours the shot and he drinks it, nodding at her for another. She pours it, watching as he takes another shot. "Damn," she starts, pouring yet another shot of whiskey, "Who hurt you?" Quinn chuckles, downing a third shot. 

"No one." he sighs, "It's the job." 

"Bad day?" she asks. 

"You could say that." he pauses, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his hand before gesturing for another shot. He downs it without hesitation. "I just need to find and catch this son of a bitch." 

"Well..." the bartender sighs as she refills the shot glass, "I wish you luck." 

"Thanks." Quinten huffs, tilting his head to push the whiskey down his throat, "The only good news is that we have a solid lead for the first time in weeks. Turns out son of a bitch has a family." 

"Yeah?"

"I shouldn't have said that. Must be the whiskey." Quinn smiles at the bartender. 

"Hey darlin'!" another voice calls from a few feet over, "Could I get another beer?" 

"Sure thing!" the bartender calls, winking at Quinten before walking towards the stranger. Quinn slaps a few dollars on the counter, turning in his seat to stand and make his way towards the exit. A pair of green eyes follow him, practically burning a hole into his back as exits the building.

"What's his deal?" the man asks, smirking up at the pretty bartender, "Dude's the saddest cop I've ever seen."

"Agent, actually. But, I can't tell you. Scout's honour." she smiles, handing the man a beer, "What happened to you?" she questions, gesturing to his black eye. 

"What? The shiner?" he smirks, taking a sip of the beer, "A friend just roughed me up a little, it's nothing." 

"If you say so." she shrugs, admiring the handsome man sat in front of her, "So what's your story?" 

"Ah sweetheart, if I told you that..." he trails off, leaning closer to the bartender, "I'd have to kill you." His voice comes as a low whisper, rough and sensual at the same time. She raises an eyebrow at him, stifling a giggle.

"Handsome guy like you wanders into my bar alone on a Friday night, a girl has to wonder." 

"Handsome, huh?" the man smirks, locking eyes with the woman in front of him. He takes his lower lip in his teeth as he does.

"Mmm" 

"I will tell you that I have to visit family tomorrow and I'm not exactly thrilled about it." he shrugs, pausing as silence engulfs the room, "What time do you get off?" 

"Oh no," the bartender laughs, "I'm not that easy and you — well, you're drunk, slick."

"Feisty huh?" the man laughs, digging into his pockets and slapping a few bills on the counter, "Your loss." he shrugs. The man spins in the barstool, turning to face the woman as he puts on his jacket. 

"Hey, what's your name anyways?" she calls as he turns to leave.

"Dean." he smirks, "Winchester." 

"Well, I'll see you around Dean Winchester." she smiles.

"No you won't." he chuckles, winking at her and turning towards the exit. The bartender leans on the counter, watching as the mysterious stranger vanishes into the night. 

Dean disappears down the cobblestone streets. His next destination is Lawrence, Kansas. He is aware that he is walking right into the agent's trap, but he needs to have a long conversation with his brother and it was already long overdue. Besides, the idea of toying with law enforcement made him smile. He had a plan and it ensured his freedom. He was going to teach the man one final lesson — if you dance with the devil, you're gonna get burned.


End file.
